And in blood
by Sam-Sam-Samedi
Summary: Suzaku Kururugi and Lelouch Lamperouge are on paths leading to destruction while C.C. discovers the meaning of their shared crossroad. In the mind of the Consciousness, there is only the world's end, or the world's beginning. AU.
1. And we mourn innocence

**Title:** And in blood

**Summary:** Suzaku Kururugi and Lelouch Lamperouge are on paths leading to destruction while C.C. discovers the meaning of their crossroads. In the mind of the Consciousness, there is only the world's end, or the world's beginning. Multi-chap. AU based off R1 canon.

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_AN:_ Because R1 canon is the only canon I actually appreciate. (Seriously, it had so much potential at the start, but then things sort of . . . fell through about ten or so episodes into R2. I mean, c'mon, _Lelouch_ spouting "love is the world's momentum!" garbage? D: He's simply . . . not that kind of person. In fact, many characters had this issue in the second half. /: ) This begins at the very end of Lelouch of the Rebellion, and I suppose it's worth saying that I intend to keep the personalities of R1 rather than frustrate myself with _anything _related to R2.

Anyway, let's get this ball rolling, shall we? All disclaimers are acknowledged. Also: **CRACKISH beginning warning**. It gets better, really!

**EDIT:** Man, I really wanted to milk that whole Kallen-has-an-alias thing . . . fine, fine I was wrong. XD;

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_It was said that the world begun as something like a slow twirl of fire in the atmosphere—as a heat that blistered in its containment and then eclipsed, barreling through time to become a galaxy that grew from its own center. They called this birth the Big Bang, and the beginning of reality, of all existence, and they studied its timeless workings, claiming themselves as the first 'complex organism.' They mocked God and called him a sadomasochist, a liar, or simply not there at all; said that creation was a loosely defined system of particles and theorems that were altogether fruitless for millenniums. There was nothing prior because nothing could __**be**__. _

_Yet __**something **__was alive and breathing even before there was a universe, aware of itself enough to float idly and stare as red was burned into it. The Consciousness would forget the days it spent with its two children, although it __**did**__ remember that it called them Perception and Selfishness, for it was they that made the world into "The World." He gave them the Codes, and they went unnamed for eternity, simply observing as evolution took root and went dutifully to work. Things came and things went; were made whole and then were made broken. _

_Animals were a strange, impractical happening to the Codes, and humanity even more so. The world had been very certain, very egalitarian, and it did whatever was necessary to survive without so much as a complaint. These new creatures were indulgent—prone to do what they wanted, and with an appalling inconsistency to their nature—as well as absorbed in their own view of things, and Perception argued that God was losing its touch. Selfishness laughed that Perception just couldn't take a good joke every now and again, until the beasts tore themselves in halves with blood pouring from their mangled organs and skin—trickling deep into the earth and thus into the Consciousness—and knew that it had never seen anything quite as bright since God made it. _

_Perception christened it a fascinating feat, completely novel, and Selfishness was careful to wait until it weaved its way back and talked of its experiences. After all, leave it to Perception to be impulsive; Selfishness knew the benefit of caution. _

_"And so?" _

_"Very impressive." _

_"But what does it mean." They would find out when the creature stopped its spasms and came to rest, lying there limp with empty eyes rolled behind its skull. _

_There was Death in the new world and they grew heavy with the knowledge. Humans came to them and loved and hated and were __**unstable **__until they were drowning in feeling, but had never known any; never had emotions of their own. They cried when their contracted no longer walked alongside them, and they considered. Dared to __wonder what they __themselves were in the realm of the Consciousness. _

- - -

**2017 a.t.b.**

He thought of the battalions spreading into Britannia's heart—the screeches ripping through hot, stormy air as the ground gave way and rows of soldiers swarmed the mainland to birth Zero's empire. He remembered the blood dripping from Lady Cornelia's mouth, crimson against pearly skin, as she shook at death's door amid the torn limbs of Gloucester and Darlton. He'd begged that she let him return her to the capital, felt the fear bubbling inside him, but she'd forced a weak laugh before insisting that she was in a cemetery fitting for Britannia's champions.

He was a knight loyal to the princess and he listened as temporary commander Guilford spoke, his voice drowned out by the sound of war, "Knight Suzaku Kururugi, your transmission is acknowledged. We shall go to Her Highness. All hail glorious Britannia; all hail Her Glorious Lady Cornelia!"

"All hail glorious Britannia," Suzaku echoed, hands stiff on the lever as he tore holes in the night sky, its wisps of cloud shattered by Lancelot's speed.

"And . . ." It was faint, the face on the monitor fading into blurs of color, "For telling me this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart." His eyes flickered back to the screen, but the white noise shuddered and dissipated into silence before he strung together a reply. Suzaku let his attention fall on the radar's web of green lines, watching as his target fled the field and swept past the eastern coastline.

"Lelouch" continued to blink, written in stark, mechanical scrawl, across the cellphone's face and he hoped he was wrong; that all his suspicions would not be justified, and that there were no curses between the two of them. His throat hitched as bullets shivered before exploding into maelstroms of red, orange, and yellow. Fingers tense and adrenaline rushing to the forefront of his mind, he let instinct grip him and danced past them in a surge of brilliant white.

He sent power buzzing through the Lancelot's circuitry, and thought of Euphemia as the color drained from her face; as her interweaved fingers went slack against his own; as blood spilled across bed sheets with throbbing tubes and needles connected at her wrists. The tentative, trembling cadence of her slow heartbeat was a sick elegy playing wildly in his skull. He tried to smother it, but Lelouch's name was smoldering—colored far too bright, and his eyes _ached_ when they saw it gleaming on the dashboard—and he threw it against the floor, wincing as a dull, metallic echo clawed at his ears.

He did not want it to be true. To think that the man who had chased him down like a hunter, threatened him with his own secrets and damned him to living against his own will, who killed _Euphemia_—left her without her own memories, and made her want to end _her_ life just as much as his own!—and then used her sacrifice to excuse the bloody massacre of thousands was the friend who swore to save the three of them in childhood.

Suzaku did not want the knowledge that Lelouch made free will and human existence into a convenience. Even as bodies rotted in the summer sun and Japan became a graveyard with its citizens buried in rubble and bullet shells, he was a pillar of strength striving tirelessly towards the future. The fall from grace was too extreme—it had to be false, yet all the evidence! He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the controls, lost in the familiar feeling of Lancelot's limbs meshing seamlessly with his own as he let it slip into free fall and dived for the island.

Kamine was a strange, forlorn spin of fresh green that rested far away from the Japanese archipelago, and had been virtually wiped from the state's records. It had no populace, no purpose, and no legal name—to the common man, it was nonexistent. He explored its history after the Shikine incident, and found that it was originally a base to enact capital punishment on dangerous criminals; many that went there held the death sentence for 'crimes against the people.' Based on the numbers it boasted, they were pretty words made to mask that it was an interment camp for the Japanese prior to the creation of Area 11.

Water parted as his Lancelot brushed the surface, sea foam rippling up its steel body before fizzing away into slow waves. He settled in a clearing next to the crumbling corpse of a shine: the end of Zero's intended course. Gray crags jutted into the horizon as a lazy sun hung behind a shield of cloud, and morning seeped between the gaps of leaves while he detached himself from seat belts and wires. He felt sleep tug at his eyes as they stung beneath sudden sunlight—the world was always ethereal outside of the Lancelot with its cramped steel hold and only the artificial glow of computer screens to guide him. Adjusting to the change in altitude, he stood as tension shot through his legs and nearly stumbled before shaking off his numbness.

Gripping the gun, he filled its barrel with six bullets and clicked it shut.

- - -

The Kamine was a forgotten place with little strategic merit, hence the ease Britannia had in completely hiding its existence. Its sole intriguing aspect was the late Prime Minister's refusal to turn over the island until the bitter end; that he would fight to preserve its 'holiness' from the corrupt regime threatening the Japanese nation.

_'Very interesting,' _Lelouch mused, observing its decay—rock was torn from the foundation, weathered by centuries worth of time and acid rain. Dust coated its stone floors and banisters, suffocating hieroglyphs drawn across the walls in strange patterns of sevens and sixes. There was an ancient, heavy air that left him unnerved; one that gripped at his heartstrings and crushed his lungs when he inhaled.

He cursed that he had no access to its blueprints, and was careful not to disturb the delicate, haunting caricature of peace sleeping there. A Knightmare would only force the structure to collapse—they were bulky and limiting, useful only for a frontal assault that could not happen if he was unfamiliar with the terrain. No comrades or weaponry could save him, and the suspect environment forced him into playing on level ground. There was no choice but to show himself, lest he risk Nunally's safety. Teeth pressed together behind the protection of his mask, he knew was being baited, and that there were no promises of her eventual return regardless of whether or not he met their terms.

Someone was operating in the shadows, and had assumed he would rush to her side. _'Damn them!'_ Worse yet, he had met their expectations and came to their second location without a guard to accompany him—yes, he thought gravely, the culprit knew him well. _Too well. _He would have to take careful measures when he killed the poor fool, partially for revenge, and partially because such a man would be a well of information regarding the inner circle of the Geass cultists.

Enemy suicide was inexcusable, but the scenarios were coming to him slowly as he pressed his palms against the towering doors lining the northernmost wall. His was a pathetically weak position, with all the power lying in the hands of an opponent he could not see. Smoking them out was impossible with Nunally trapped in that damned wheel chair, and offering truces was merely a pretense and a formality that gave no guarantees._ 'No matter. I must ensure Nunally's—' _Gunfire breezed his left ear and sent panic spreading through his body, the bullet leaving a deep gash as it bit into the worn ghost of the shrine wall.

He tensed as footfalls echoed in the gloom, bounding deep into the crevices and then slipping into the outside world, " . . . Turn and face this way, slowly." It was too goddamn nostalgic, nestling deep inside him as Suzaku broke free from a veil of shadow.

_'Damn it!' _He was above bartering for an answer from most, and Suzaku least of all. Silence fell upon them, a heavy cloak suffocating him beneath its indifference as his old friend reached out a hand with his gun held at arm's length. His legs were tremulous—barely managing steps as he forced himself ahead—and a weak stream of sunlight streaked the dark like spider webs of cracked glass.

"Didn't you hear me, Zero?" The sound was a low growl, staccato and cruel, "I said turn and face me."

"Euphemia," he began, adopting Zero's confidence, "mercilessly murdered thousands of innocent Japanese, yet, towards a woman like her, you—"

"It must be convenient," Suzaku cut the air, his voice a knife sharp as steel and colder yet— _deathly_ cold, "The Geass. You hide within the shadows, and the responsibility is thrown _mercilessly_ at others. How arrogant . . . and despicable." It haunted him for a moment as his fingers trembled at his side, tucked below the folds of his cape, and his retorts and manipulations died deep in his throat.

He felt an angry heat numb his body, "How do you know of it." Lelouch kept a careful, steady control over the shame spilling into his words.

"Kallen!" There was a brief rustle of cloth and his eyes sped to meet her, lithe figure crouched near a blotch of moss clutching to old gravel, "Don't you want to know Zero's true identity?"

_'Kallen—?!' _He paused, watching her gun gleam treacherous silver as she aimed at Suzaku's back, the red spotter writhing madly up his spine.

She hissed an acerbic, "What are you saying all the sudden!?"

"You have the right to witness the truth as well," the shot cracked, severing their false peace when it rushed forward in a hazy streak and grazed his forehead. A sick scream rang out from its plastic innards as a crooked line made its downward, twisting and jerking until it shattered into two identical halves. The mask clattered there on the cold ground, a black spin twirling on its axis before coming to a halt and lying dead still, now empty, and they looked on at the boy they both knew.

"I don't believe it . . ." Suzaku's face fell victim to shock, and he tore his eyes away.

He felt slick blood ease against his cheeks, and heard Kallen's broken, "What?! Why! Le—Lelouch is . . ."

"That's right," Lelouch murmured, callous and cynical, "I am Zero. I lead the Order of the Black Knights against the Holy Britannian Empire. And I'll eventually lay claim to the entire world."

Suzaku sprang back upright, tense with fear, "Have you lost your mind?! All those people at the SAZ . . . and . . . and _Euphie_! They died for something like that—something so worthless?!"

Kallen collapsed, knees bucking as she toppled over in a pile of limbs, "You . . . _Zero_ . . . made use of us Japanese? . . . Even me . . ."

"If you see it from a results standpoint," he finished easily, fastening together a second guise of apathy; Suzaku was hysterical and exhausted, and thus of little use in Nunally's rescue, "Japan will be liberated. You should have no qualms—that was our. . . _your_ resolve, Kallen."

Gaze darting to her, Suzaku sneered a disgusted, "Kallen, a free Japan is pointless if everyone who believes in it dies! Don't trust him! What good is a country who doesn't know if its leader will kill his own people in cold blood?!"

"How can a knight of sanguinary _Britannia_ possibly make such a two-faced claim?!"

Suzaku's yells charged on in an arrogant tirade, "He doesn't care about how his actions affect others!"

"_Kallen_!" Her head jolted Lelouch's way, and she quivered, "Can you respect his weak-minded philosophies? He has merely sold himself to the Britannians—became a slave of the Empire!"

"A revolution that needs so much blood is worthless! He's betrayed his own already—don't trust him!"

"Kallen, shoot, for the sake of Japan's pride!" Suzaku spun to meet him, arm still extended as his finger itched for the trigger, and a shot howled in the gray.

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**AN:** Eh, I liked it thus far, but it's not my best work. That aside, reviews make me a happy author. :3 (But, and I will admit this, not any less lazy. As a matter of fact, I don't believe_ anything _could make me less lazy. 8l )


	2. An ode to heros and dreams old and new

**Title:** And in blood

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_AN: _Thanks all of you! I'm glad to know you've enjoyed it thus far. :D Your compliments are appreciated.

. . . Also, this fanfic got an unusual amount of alerts . . . Not that I'm not pleased as a result, though.

**Edit:** Know that I realize_ he had his Geass constantly_. I just like describing it. D:

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Kallen's hiss ripped through still air, "For Japan! I will _never _be the Empire's dog!" A red haze, dark against milk-white cradling warm summer green, snaked the curve of his iris as death barreled toward him in a smear of bright steel.

Suzaku's moves were second nature after battles with the Lancelot and training sessions in Ashford's garden—reckless and wild to an outsider, but predictable in that impossible way chaos is. Lelouch had been reluctant to base his assessments on intuition once that damned Knightmare was sliced in two with his best friend at its controls, and had observed him until he knew his lag and muscle endurance—Suzaku's weaknesses were _his _strengths, after all. Fingers pressed against cold metal, Lelouch timed his footsteps with practiced ease; counted while he rushed from foot-to-foot, gliding easily to the right as his earpiece splintered into shards of white and gold.

The rebellion was undoubtedly a failure; he had instructed that they isolate him in the Lancelot and then have him apprehended and imprisoned in Ashford until his return, yet he was _here. _The Order had not only lost precious data regarding Britannian military secrets, but the pilot capable of near absolute synchronization—what to bribe that bitch of an engineer with now?! He prayed that they were able to keep their tentative grip on their strongholds at least, but the cowards were incompetent fools without his orders. And _Nunally_, the bastards . . . they had neglected to protect civilians and students, a mistake surely to lead to internal strife between the different factions were the academy swarmed, and that was disregarding premature violence. He would punish them accordingly upon his return. Oh merciful god, would they_ pay_.

Quiet as his gun slid from rippling cloth, Lelouch sent a twin bullet that buried deep into the flesh of Suzaku's thigh. He hid his grimace as blood was thrown across the stone in wet ink blossoms, "Suzaku. Consider my warning: Britannia will die at the hands of its royal family."

His fingers stained red as they clawed at his mangled limb, Suzaku rasped a feral, "Damn you, Lelouch!"

Silence drowned the room in thunderous calm, ". . . What good is a Britannian soldier in a world where Britannia does not exist?" He pulled into the shadows, pale face dyed in a sea of gray as he turned gracefully on his heel.

Suzaku sneered, collapsing into a mess of dirty white and tousled brown hair, "_Wait_, you—!"

"It's unfortunate," his whisper was low and guilt-ridden, "I did not want you nor Nunally to. . ." Footfalls danced off the ancient walls, echoing as Kallen forced her legs to move—to stand, still tremulous and weak with the weight of Zero's identity resting on her young shoulders.

"Le—Zero, sir . . ." She muttered cautiously, a look of horrified fascination beginning to fade, and his answer was a handsome, lying smile. The sort that a man bearing the name Zero would grace his vital followers with; the sort that Kallen had wanted so desperately from her idol.

"I—," Lelouch was sharp, authoritarian, and poisonously smooth while he wiped the blood from his eyes, "_No_, myself and the entirety of the Order, are proud. You have made the correct choice."

The reply was anxious, "Thank you, Sir . . . but, Suzak—"

A raw ferocity crept into his snarl and she shrank from the rage of a long-established leader, "Kallen! We must hurry to Nunally!"

"What happened to—?!" Suzaku doubled over, his voice cracking from pain, "_Damn it!_. . ."

Her ironclad mask already fractured, Kallen let him see her fear as she recalled a girl as fragile as blown glass, "What did they do to her?!"

"She's been abducted by an enemy of the Order," he affirmed gravely as the angry flare in Suzaku's eyes died. Casting a shadowy glance on his back, Lelouch said nothing when he glowered at the cracks threading the floor's length and resigned to defeat.

Words tinted with disgust, she muttered a bitter, "But what should we do with _him_?"

"No harm will come to either," it was strong as they both pried the doors apart, "However, Nunally is in more pertinent danger."

"Yeah, but . . ." She meandered, working to keep her voice steady, "Did you have to be that extreme?"

"He would only be a nuisance as he is now. I do not tempt fate where temptation isn't needed," color spilled into the gaping mouth of the shrine, its bowels inky black, "Come—and, for reassurance, know that I_ fully_ intend to collect Suzaku as soon as we have confirmed my sister's safety."

The inner sanctum was barren, a misty stretch of blue brick that plunged to abrupt gray at the domed ceiling and dwindled to darkness. It dug downward, the shrine's staircase whirling into eternity as his eyesight drowned in a room comparable to starless skies; empty and desolate, as if it were the universe in its entirety. Kallen crept in beside him, a brush of body heat and clothing, before she pulled it closed and the sunlight was snuffed out.

Lelouch was careful to let her lead, gun pointed outward as they moved through a labyrinth of crumbling stone—there was a sick coating of dust swirling in his throat, and he sifted through his pockets for a flashlight before sending an dim flood of off-white into the cavern's heart.

"Why do you have _that _with you?"

"I have a use for everything I carry," he finished stoically, and marched boldly ahead with a perfect posture. Lelouch paused, turning a blade over in his hands—feeling the burn of cold metal drain heat from his fingertips—and eased it against a corner, a maelstrom of crimson bubbling at the edge of his pupil.

"Kallen. Keep your eyes closed," she snapped them tight, attempting to hide the thumb pressed delicately to the trigger as he sent light exploding from all corners, "All those present, kill yourselves!" She winced, listening for the bullet whistling through the air, and felt her heart shake in her chest when silence was the hall's reply.

Lelouch gritted his teeth, "Come." The chance of an ambush was slim; absolute shadow limited enemies and allies alike. There were patches of broken dirt—churned in the shape of recent footsteps, and made leisurely, with little concern. No breaks in his steps or width to imply running. Did this idiot feel no great urge to conceal himself? He had practically _invited _them to his side, and with no escort!

Considering Suzaku's knowledge of the Geass and Nunally's kidnapping, he doubted they intended to kill him; there were much simpler ways to accomplish that. No, he wanted to speak—_to meet _with him, and so much so that he had bothered to find them both to lure him deeper in. Lelouch broke into a run, fists balled as he launched himself forward with a speed to rival Kallen's. How did they know about his relationship to either—coincidence was far too convenient a term, and cruelly narcissistic given the secret history of Lelouch vi Britannia. Kururugi Shrine was a charred skeleton in the ruins of the ghetto, and Nunally's records had been virtually wiped from the system to avoid any potential harm should Zero be discovered. Dead men have no need for the past, yet they were drawn here by a same force; did they know the truth of his exile? Of Zero? _'Damn it!'_

Yes, he was the target, but _why_? Kallen lingered in the dark as he let his eyes roam the corridors, searching for strings of wire or disturbed earth scattered across the threshold. Bombs were pointless; a massive explosion on the upper levels would lead to destruction of the others, aided by the force of gravity and the weak foundation . Such recklessness would destroy both himself and the enemy—not a prudent move, given that the shrine was difficult to navigate and poised only to head further down.

He whorled on his heel, barreling into the black as worry played a siren song inside his skull, high-pitched and screeching. _'Such a thing has never been completely excavated? No—it is mere fabrication on the part of Britannia; the military stationed here negates their pretense.' _His thoughts were clamoring growls, possibilities melting into one another. _'Witch . . . how long has the monarchy known of Geass' existence?! Could __**that**__ bastard be—?!' _Lelouch's iron resolve shuddered at the thought, reminded of blood spinning across the gold marble of their Aries Villa, and the transience of his entire existence in front of power.

Time was racing, minutes shattering into seconds as they were forced to exercise caution—Nunally and Suzaku had no idea of the Emperor's horrors, and were cast as the marionettes of a shadow theater. He needed to remove them as soon as humanly possible, and destroy whatever puppeteer had his fingers playing with their strings. With _his _strings.

"Lelouch," Kallen said seriously, and he turned to meet her, "You won't betray the Black Knights, will you?"

His answer was silence, " . . . It would be a result of the situation. In most feasible scenarios? No."

"How can you say that?! We—you, you gave us hope!" She sneered, the taint of a lifetime's worth of weakness rising to the surface, "We put our lives on the line, this is _everything_ to us—"

"Is it?" He murmured, dark as black velvet, "You, who use the name of Stadtfelt to further your own agenda. Does your privileged life reflect that of greater Japan?"

The words tore through her throat, "Staying there was _necessary_—"

"What of those who cannot afford Knightmares, Kallen? Are they any less committed? Any less _deserving_?" Kallen swallowed empty rhetoric, her eyes averted, "I use the strong and the weak, as do you."

"But _my brother_—!"

"He knew the consequences that came with anarchy," Lelouch's response was cold, scientific, like a coroner with a scalpel poised over his cadaver, "Do you believe only _you _have lost loved ones in this?"

Kallen's yells sang throughout the hall, "You killed the innocents we wanted to protect!"

"I did. . . " As a forgotten son of royal Britannia, he did not give sympathy or pretenses, "But that sacrifice will lead to a free Japan. It hardly compares with the continued brutality of Britannia."

It was fractured, a broken contralto born to glorify his fallen heroism, "But you should have been able to do _something. . . _anything . . ."

He scoffed a simple and accusatory, "Does my being here excuse your own noninvolvement?"

"I didn't know—" she hissed, hand shaking as she clutched the gun's familiar handle.

"One result of our actions was retaliation by independent paramilitaries, rival terrorist groups, and Britannia itself," Lelouch trailed off, coolly detached, "Should I say you didn't know then?"

"I—"

His bluntness cleaved through her, "Losing life is an unfortunate side effect of war."

"Japan needed you!" Kallen threw her arms outward, a chill creeping up her spine, "I . . . I respected you! Respected _Zero_!"

"They placed me on a pedestal in exchange for power, and I have given them my terms. If it is a crutch, then resign your position as my Knight and return to Ashford," the regret festered deep in her gut—ripping at her mind, breaking her faith into the things of dreams. His free Japan was a utopia fraying at its seams as reality stole her from delusions of security; from the ideal Zero she had sworn her soul to.

"Fine, but why did you abandon us on the field?!"

"I had no other choice," he raged, exhausted with her complaints, "Do you want Nunally to die, Kallen!?"

"So you're okay with us making sacrifices, even though _you _don't want to give up anything at all?!"

She sent a chord buried deep inside him warbling, ". . . That may be true."

"Selfish asshole!" It was shrill, and she spat it like he was a poison crawling inside her blood that she wanted to escape.

"However, your rebellion depends on my leadership. What I want to keep and lose are the rewards for my 'services.'"

Sound caught inside her, and it was choking as she felt her retort swell and die, "—!"

"If I leave you, the Knights will simply regress into a mockery—unable to win their battles or receive their supplies and dependent on others. Do you want to return to only straddling the Empire? To humiliate yourself?" It rolled off his tongue, a treacherous reminder of her powerlessness in their corpse of a world.

". . ." She flexed her fingers, feeling tension string in her muscles as he slipped further away— descended into the pit, with Kallen left to stare at his retreating back.

"Would Naoto be pleased with such failure? His death will have been for nothing; a worthless sacrifice, in all manners." She came then, falling dutifully in tow as she thought of her brother gnarled with blood spilling from his trembling lips—her _brother_, who had been unable to speak, unable to do anything but whimper as the life was wrenched out of his body! The brother who had no grave; the brother who was disowned for defying Britannia and sullying their father's good name; the brother who she left alone and in fear as he died.

"I don't like you, but . . ." Kallen kept her voice strong, "I'm going to do this for Nunally and Naoto. Because they didn't deserve to be caught up in our struggle."

"A fair trade," Lelouch muttered easily, snaking into the dark.

"Although, if you betray the Black Kni—no! If you betray _Japan_," it was a savage hiss, cruel and ruthless, "I will kill you myself."

"Hah! A fitting attitude for my Knight. I will be curious to see if you can hold true to your word." Silence became their companion, Kallen drifting to the front as they moved through an eternal cloak of shadow—passed markings drawn on the rotted walls that mirrored the seven cycles of the moon rippling across a mimicry of the night sky.

"Damn it," Kallen growled, "This is like walking to hell. How long does it _go_?!"

"I doubt it stretches much further . . ." Fear was gripping at his heart as time stole Nunally from him. Passing stair flight after stair flight while his legs protested, Lelouch felt his eyes sting when light waltzed across a dirt pathway—and he sent strength ricocheting into his body, charging forward with Kallen at his heels as an arch of doorway waited for them.

"Lelouch! Where are you goin—hey, wait!" He heard nothing as he exploded into a pool of white and gold, orange teasing at his vision. A basilica—its shells of buildings jutting like skeletons, colored cream and shadowy gray—from an older age stood tall and firm, a spin of a stairwell leading to its sacrificial stage.

_'What the hell __**is**__ this?!' _Cloud misted the stone floors, bathing the world in a sunset whose colors ran together, much as water poured across a canvas.

"Hmm," the voice was crisp, "So you have come. To think that _you _. . ."

"Kallen!" Lelouch stiffened when no answer came; when no footsteps echoed.

"Only those chosen by the C. may enter the Thought Elevator," it was unassuming and disturbingly young as he flew across the steps and shot at the boy poised next to a comatose Nunally, her halo of mousy hair splayed across the twisted metal of her wheelchair. He twitched and sank to his knees in waves of luxurious silk, red easing across wide eyes and into his open mouth, and blood matting a curtain of blond thrown against pale skin.

"Nunally—!" Lelouch crouched at her sides, easing fingers against her frozen wrist.

"You are very impolite, as should be expected of an impudent child," he felt his heartstrings tighten in his chest, "I see that your friend isn't here. How unfortunate; did he die?"

_'How--!' _Twirling on the balls of his feet, he smothered his iris in vivid crimson, "Die!"

His counter was a crooked smile, "I'm afraid such tactics are useless on _our _kind."

"You," Lelouch rumbled between gritted teeth, "are the same as C.C. Was Suzaku a diversion, or—"

"Yes, I suppose that's accurate," he finished smoothly, reaching for the gun Lelouch sent writhing backwards when he tossed it aside, "As for him, I had instructed that he merely follow you. It seems to have went unheeded." He raised it, balancing the unfamiliar weight of steel as he let the spotter run over Nunally, her heart beating like a crippled bird pressing wings against its cage.

"_No_, stop—!"

"I do not intend to shoot the girl, provided you consider my conditions," he was low and sharp, "Although I am reluctant to appeal to _her_ filthy blood—"

"What?!" Lelouch spluttered, mad desperation creeping into his words, "_Anything_! I'll do anything,_ please_—!"

"Fine then," he thundered, a mad spark in his bloody stare shimmering beneath the limelight, "In exchange for her pitiful life, you will relinquish your birthright to the power of C." Lelouch felt himself go weak—the energy draining, slipping away as haze wrapped around his mind—and electric blue rushed in streaks, dancing at his heels as color flared behind his eyes.

He woke drenched in sunlight, Nunally hugged to his heaving chest as a haunting darkness faded from his vision.

* * *

_AN:_ Haha, next chapter we get to hear Suzaku wangst like there's no tomorrow! . . . Well. That's _fun_. L: (Sorry the ending of this chapter wasn't particularly impressive. D: On the plus side, I did pull three thousand words. _Oh yeah_.)


	3. Between memories and disillusionment

**Title:** And in blood

* * *

_AN: _Suzaku wanks courtesy of his low self-esteem, Lelouch returns to the Black Knight Batcave . . . Same old, same old. Thanks again for reading. :D Also, **one**** month time-skip**. (You know, just in case the cliffhanger wasn't bad enough.) And for those curious**, I will go over how Suzaku got out of that nasty predicament last chapter eventually**, but it wasn't particularly suited to this narrative.

* * *

There was an empty feeling hung over his dorm room's stark white walls and sagging desktop; the haunting kind that came and went with slow recovery. As his muscles strung together their broken, trembling fibrils, he resigned to watching the cracks thread the ceiling at the request of others—the student council, admirers, Cecile. They hid their sad eyes behind a cheerful mask, and all knew of Euphemia; kept a careful mind about what fell out of their open mouths until he felt suffocated by their worries. He was exhausted with their claims he rest lest he "overwork" himself—but he had overworked himself since he was a child, and nothing in him took very well to a sedentary lifestyle that left him tired one half of the time and restless the other. "Too much activity will do nothing for his injury" and "is he really that bad off?" colored his world in shades of ink black and snowy white with gray teasing at the edges, but not enough to make them impartial.

The first few weeks were the worst because no one stopped asking—they prattled on like a twisted bagatelle mocking his pain, clamoring and swaggering. He spent hours in the infirmary, swarmed by a press searching for news of Zero, of the princess, of his supposed _Shinjuku 2017 _battle honour. Lelouch and Euphemia crept deep into the darker pits of his mind even though he tried desperately to force them out. He heard it as if it were white noise: the nurses discussed the causalities of the Black Rebellion; the socio-political reasoning behind a figurehead massacre princess; Lady Cornelia's injuries; the Empire's future plans. He would keep everything silent until their ghosts were gone, but their memories were burned into his heart. Suzaku returned to cheers and curiosity when he limped over Ashford's crisp threshold—to a welcoming party that spanned the entirety of the grounds and bloomed into a school festival. There were broken walls lining the southern wing and blood ran the sewers, but they celebrated until their throats were hoarse and they tempted a brilliant smile from him. Until the war was a thing of the past that no one wanted to imagine.

When the grounds fell back to silence and the teachers coaxed their students into the classroom, he threw away everything that belonged to or reminded him of Lelouch—wanted him out of his life completely, yet he crept just beyond his reach; lingered. Even after there was nothing of him to exist, he refused to loosen the stranglehold that seven years wrought. He called him his friend, and that branding twisted and contorted until it coiled around his neck to choke him. Suzaku trusted him with the truth of his father's death, and he shattered his faith—used his crooked, broken belief in himself to further his own ends, despite that he was afraid of being rejected, humiliated, and thought inhuman like he was by a friend he respected. It had made him less willing to trust anyone, and himself least of all—in the aftermath of deception, Suzaku was afraid of the double-faced ambitions of humanity. Did everyone subjugate others the way he had? Create cages for the people they promised to care for? He let his heart hang too freely on his sleeve, and Lelouch tore at it until the threads were bare and fraying.

It was Cecile who anxiously suggested he was suddenly too quiet, but he was also too angry. Far too angry. He obsessed, or he simply forgot, forgot until there was nothing rattling inside his skull. Too much happened, and he'd been too weak to stop it, unable to even die correctly.

At the end of their secret war, his bloody past was just another piece Lelouch believed he could win with; a thing on a chessboard that favored an eventual victory. He was sick for manipulating him, sick for killing and imposing blame on Euphemia—on Euphemia, damn it, his _sister_. The things she told Suzaku he was, that he _could _be, in a reality where he was nothing she should love. He gave his life in exchange for her's and she asked him to value himself; demanded he think of what he wanted, when he was a burden since the day he was born. On his friends who he couldn't save. On a Japan that he couldn't change. On _her_ who he couldn't protect! And his _father_, oh, his father.

He was utterly worthless, and Euphemia was worth the world. It was cruel; he should have died in her place, but Lelouch kept him chained to life as though it was a right he believed he had. All his preaching—his childhood claims that he wanted to choose for himself, to escape the authority of his father—were lies just as much as anything else he'd said. He was the same as the man now.

Sometimes on days when he was alone, he was trapped by thoughts of blood easing down broken bodies and the skin swelling beneath a red sun laughing in the sky. They gave him solace originally—offered P.T.S.D. treatment for the sake of overcoming the sudden, violent death of over six-hundred innocents, but he was unnerved by doctors and medical attention. They were a strange sort of privilege his fellow Japanese were never given; they did not have priority over Britannian soldiers, and the psychological affects of battle were considered "a result of the breed unworthy of government action or funding." There were moments, brief spells of uncertainty, where he wished he had accepted simply to flee the red curling across the gravel of the SAZ and painting Euphemia's milky complexion in ugly blotches. He didn't want to believe, even to contemplate, that any part of her was amused by the idea of him gunned down in cold blood, but he couldn't forget it, and every so often he wondered if it had all been lies, and maybe the Geass didn't work like he wanted it to and Euphemia _had_—but no! She was the first person, the only he had ever known, to say they loved him despite that he was inherently flawed.

When Euphemia's memory chose to keep silent, he found himself reminded of Shirley's father—one among the many coffins Zero committed to still earth. The reason why she had no interest in Lelouch was enigmatic primarily because Suzaku didn't like thinking about it, and he wasted hours pretending it was in the past when his old friend shadowed him everywhere. There were days that he wished he would show up dead so he never had to torment himself over his lunacy again; there were others that he simply felt guilty.

Suzaku leaned against the bed frame, leg elevated, as a knock moved through the door frame.

"Ah," his voice was strong, "Come in."

"Hey, Suzaku!" Rivals and Shirley were a chorus, and he nestled deeper into the pillows as they tumbled inside—three of them, with an over-hanging optimism that whispered in the room's every gap and crevice.

"Now, now," Milly said silkily, wagging a delicate finger, "Let's not be so _loud_!"

"_You're _the worst out of all of us, you know!" Shirley scoffed, eying the tray balanced cautiously in her arms; it was decorated with pastries and desserts colored creamy white and yellow, cherries thrown across their tops and gleaming an easy carmine.

"I wish Milly would cook a meal for me. . ." He murmured brokenly, throwing an arm haphazardly around his shoulders, "You're lucky, man!" Rivalz slapped him heartily on the back, and he pitched forward before shakily catching himself on the bed frame.

"It's just desserts, Rivalz!" Milly gushed lovingly, easing them on a lonely desk near a towering closet door, "But thank you. I _am _a wonderful cook, after all!"

"Hey, all you made _were _desserts!" Shirley chided, arms pressed to her hips, "Is that really good for him? He's supposed to be on an alkaline diet because of his military training."

"Well, after eating Miss Cecile's food . . ." It was enough to forge an awkward silence, the others watching as he recalled new, different horrors.

Rivalz began with a lighthearted, "You know, that lady's a bit weird, isn't she? She must really love_ you_, eh? Heheh."

"Oh my," it was melodious and treacherously suggestive, "If you say things like that, people will get the wrong impression of Suzaku."

"I don't mind," he added naively, managing a sympathetic grin, "I like Miss Cecil—"

"You don't get what they're saying at all, do you?" Shirley muttered, her voice dark, and shooed them away with a dry whisper of, "Idiots. . ."

"Oh, Shirley, we're only teasing! Ta-da!" She was bold as she handed him a cookie, sugar powder dusted across its face, "Now eat up."

Shirley arched an eyebrow, and hissed a skeptical, "Are you just trying to get dirt on him? He_ is _hurt, you know."

"Oh, no, I'm just _so _kind!"

"Ha," Rivalz laughed, breaking into a knowing smirk, "Maybe she's just bored without Lelouch around to piss off. Seriously, where did he go, anyway?"

"Transfers are common after these kinds of things, and Ashford did get seized," Shirley's answer was unsure, and her wide eyes guileless, "Maybe Lulu was just worried about Nunally getting caught up in it all?"

"Yeah, well, I just wish he'd tell us before he up and disappears. Who am I supposed to gamble with no—"

Her sneer sent Arthur darting into the safety of a makeshift chasm between the bed and the wall,"I told you to stop doing that!"

"Hey, hey!—augh. . ."

Milly turned to him, and her voice ran like honey laced with poison, "Well, he's gone. I've simply got to move on to new targets."

"Oh," Shirley snarled bitterly, humorless as she reached for a tart,"How sad."

"Isn't it, _Su_-_za_-_ku_?" Milly sang as she slipped into the hall to drag punch inside and Rivalz spluttered that she let him help, writhing awkwardly while he barreled to meet her.

"Shirley, I," he hissed, numb fingers gripping at the sheets,"Haven't thought much about him since he left."

"Really?" There was a twinge of sorrow lying somewhere deep inside her, "But you two were such good friends. . . "

He watched light dance past the windowpane while the clouds played against a vivid skyline, and the quiet, shattered part of him breathed a,_ 'Isn't it ironic. . . for both you **and** me . . .' _

- - -

Hands folded in a shadowy cave of a guest room, Lelouch eased his aching back into the swivel chair as screens sent blue light misting the walls. Letting his mind wander through possible scenarios, he felt the muscles in his face go taut at the thought of being confined to the ghetto; its already poor power supply was stripped to the bare minimum in favor of the Britannian grid due in part to the rebellion, and internet access was near nonexistent to keep information from the Numbers. Riots were breaking out between the Elevens and foot soldiers stationed outside the borderlines to avoid "jumping the fence"—attempts to flee the Empire in favor of transportation to Free China or the EU. His eastern brigade had been pushed backwards into the core of the Shinjuku ghetto, and thus isolated from the supplementary units in sections A and C. According to reports from the front line, enemy and ally retaliation ceased upon a massive break in the sewer line lingering near the outskirts of the prefecture. The computer glowed, a haze of weak white streaking across his pale face as a dry news reporter drudged on about the loss of a major labor distributor. Windows flying across its face, he watched as floodwater surged in the residential areas his men were hiding behind—with waterborne illness widespread in those who had fled the theatre and civilians, his reputation was taking a significant blow internally _and _externally.

To grind salt deep into fresh wounds, his Black Knights were wary and insubordinate as a result of his defeat; demoralized and murmuring that their miracle worker was losing his touch. Despite that betrayal was impossible because of his Geass orders, there were hushed talks of dethroning Zero given Lelouch's abrupt "timidity" following the revolt. His fingers slowed, hovering over the keyboard, as he felt for the familiar spin of red that exploded across his vision—nothing came, and his anger broiled, threatening to spill over into ranting. Being without an active Geass was a nuisance he had never weighed, and Lelouch festered when he heard the Order hiss that he was _choosing _to send veterans into the line of fire. On principle he did not induct new recruits into the Order without first guaranteeing their loyalty for the sake of avoiding spies or unneeded conflict. His critics were the Knights' cowards—Tamaki in particular, the impudent fool—who felt entitled to the safety of headquarters. Their complaints were _hardly_ worth his ears, but they had been beautifully vocal in their campaigns against his leadership.

_'Damn the hypocrites.'_ Lelouch scoffed, and thought of issues involving import and export search and seize by the Empire. His bastard of a father had delegated strict policies regarding what could enter and leave Britannia at large, and thus Japan was smothered in soldiers and anti-terrorist protocol; travel ceased as regular use planes were grounded and ships were forced to dock at the request of the monarchy. He could only haggle with officially recognized parties for arms and supplies. It was an unnecessary formality, given they sold to Britannia and his rival factions in Okinawa—condemned him to death as much as promised him life. Those who shoot wait to be shot was his mantra, but Lelouch preferred to keep the guns on his side. History's victors were often painfully economical during wartime, and he was downright _cheap_.

Shifting uncomfortably and unable to silence the over-hanging urgency teasing at his mind, he knew there was also Suzaku's hearing to consider—his public sympathy had bloomed into full-fledged hero worship, as he was _personally _accredited with Cornelia's rescue by Gilbert Guilford. Forced to witness the violence dwindle back to underhand tactics and temporary truces, Lelouch suffered through an outbreak of rebellion imitators and was attached to a plague of Honorary Britannian murders, and wherever the latter appeared Suzaku's name lingered close behind. The press was happy to adopt him as the spokesperson for the marginalized second class and a once tentative silence cracked and exploded into speculation in favor of the conservative or liberal argument. Sensing the political opportunity, Schneizel, the bastard, encouraged him that they retaliate against the constabulary who had falsely accused him of Clovis' death in the open and at the height of his popularity.

And, disgusting as it was, there were viable rumors that he'd been considered for the Knights of the Round, which was subject to inversion of core members after failing to force back his enemy lines. Tension reverberated in his tired hands as he tapped a finger in a broken rhythm, wood singing an ode to his frustration—the more hold the military had on him, the more vexing it would be to sway him to the Black Knights, and that pearl-white outfit was beginning to burn his eyes; on Suzaku, it was far too intense, far too _vivid_ for him.

A dark, haunting ghost in his skull murmured that he should remember that he'd been happy to deny him before, and Lelouch's surface indifference twitched to quiet rage while his eyes swept over the profile only recently given to Euphemia's four month old Knight. Bitter, he abandoned it to research statistics regarding the movement of Sakuradite from Fuji to inner city Tokyo—it was his intention to hijack a transfer vehicle to not only expose Britannia's weak defenses in the east, but also reequip the Burais with a stable flow of fuel from the Empire.

Her wind chime voice sang in the gloom, "You certainly are vindictive, aren't you?"

"Be quiet," he growled, low and guttural.

"You haven't forgiven me for not warning you about V.V. "

He spat it like acid, rearing to meet her emotionless stare, "What do you know about the Geass, then?!"

C.C. said nothing save for a dry and distanced,"If I told you, it wouldn't be any fun."

Lelouch eased back to a trembling apathy, sifting through information on Suzaku's hearing before she muttered a faint, "Is he something interesting? Isn't this about that spoiled prince—what was his name . . ."

"If he succeeds in this," it oozed cruel hatred, "The court will be forced to recognize that the Japanese have a legitimate voice under Britannian law."

"Oh?" C.C. stretched her arms outward, Cheese-kun clutched to her chest, "Is it really that bad, given what your Knights are . . ."

"Schneizel has many political opponents with ties to the police force, both positive and negative—given the publicity of the hearing, it's nearly assured that they will be forced to resign due to pressure from the media. He will have eliminated a significance portion of the council to make room for his own backers."

Her reply was listless, "And?"

"That will be a blow to our resolve, since he has plans to establish wide-spread integration in the military. My knights have no interest in fighting Japanese to Japanese, and particularly if their wages outweigh the benefits offered by my Order—"

It cut through still, dead air, "Are you angry with him?"

"What?" Lelouch cringed at the uncertainty playing beneath his words.

"With that pilot," she finished prophetically, running a hand over the waves of cloth that were her sleeves.

"He's of no consequence to me," he was careful to keep his answer unreadable and his voice empty of life, "If he is so eager to run away and cheapen himself for something as odious as Britannia, then let him play the fool."

"Well, being as you've done nothing but browse articles he's in—"

Lelouch force-fed an impassive, "I'm gathering information, although I'm sure such pastimes are far beyond you."

Amusement tempted a crooked, sadistic half-grin,"Then why read the same articles?"

"Plans," it was unconvincing, and he felt the animosity wrought from weeks of skirting the shadows and sudden weakness bubble to the forefront of his mind.

"Ha!" She sneered, burying her face into the sea of fluff, "What an impertinent, needy child. You barely even know him."

Lelouch thundered to his feet, spinning on his heel as he barked a feral, _menacing_, "Damn it, do you understand the generosity I've shown simply by letting you—"

"Remember," C.C.'s words spoke danger and warnings, "That I have lived much longer and have seen men much greater than you. Do not dare to lecture me on the world; you live because_ I _said it would be so."

Silence was his counter, ". . . You are a plaything I chose. So entertain me, Lelouch."

It was tense and cornered, ripped from his throat, "You truly are a damned witch."

"Of course," C.C. rumbled and eased into the love chair as he waited for honesty to trickle from behind her mask, but none came.

The quiet festered to something putrid, and he hissed a callous, "I need to speak to Diethard."

"Hm," she hesitated, dragging herself to meet his eyes, ". . . Bring pizza." With a flourish of his cloak, Lelouch donned Zero's mask, enigmatic and new as it gleaned below naked bulb light—no webs of jagged cracks ran the plastic, and he thought of its predecessor as it stank of ash in dancing flames.

The halls were buzzing with life while he marched deep into its heart—officers came to abrupt standstills, saluting him with their undivided attention when he passed them like a wisp of shadow. He gave them no answers, and worked to tear apart the veil tossed over C.C.'s cryptic world; why had V.V. removed his Geass? She implied it was not permanent, perhaps not gone at all, but his questions screeched in his brain until they were sirens tearing at a fraying mind.

_'V.V.,' _She'd said in tones much blacker than anything he'd heard before; in a voice old and ragged as time,_ 'is an interloping fool. Don't worry—our covenant is still valid. He can only pretend it's gone.' _Very much aware that the chances of finding anything authentic were slim at best wherever C.C. was concerned, he had made an effort to launch an extensive investigation of Kamine's forgotten island, and he fought with impatience as he struggled down steps and into Diethard's company.

"Ah, Zero!" He said warmly, rising with a hand extended to take his own.

Lelouch ignored his niceties, "Your answer, Diethard?"

"Well," he was leisurely, "There was an interment camp. At one point records suggest it was under the jurisdiction of the old Japanese government, but . . ."

"And?"

Diethard crossed his arms and strung together a vague, "For revenge or whatever reason—perhaps Britannian political prisoners were sent there—the government seized it."

"I see—"

"Wait a minute. There were certain experiments—_horrible_, impressive and devaluing if the public found out—and practices in place at the time. Mutilation, things involving twins, and studies of premature death or outright murder of subjects."

He whirled towards the door, and snapped a stiff, "Your report should be sent to me immediately."

"Of course," it was smooth and evocative, "Really though . . . there wasn't much but general garbage. Nothing _you_ can't assume, I'm sure."

"Irregardless, it interests me."

"Ah! By the way," his reply was curious, yet a chilling subtext lurked below his amiable grin, "How long do you intend to go without making a public appearance?"

Lelouch offered a dry, "I am not obligated to show my face."

"Hah! And it goes to say that you never do. But that's not going to make people very fond of us, will it?"

"It's unnecessary at this point," Diethard considered the implications, weighing him with a deceptively blank stare, "I simply give orders from a distance, and that should suffice for my subordinates."

"Yeah, but you've never been prudent before. The others are curious—I find it an entertaining change myself; similar to building tension before the climax."

Lelouch gave no answer and their talk was smothered by absolute silence before he dissolved into the dark.

- - -

Kallen was stationed with Ohgi outside of the broken corpse of Shinjuku as floodwater hissed in the gloom, spreading past paper houses crumbling beneath the weight. She had never thought of the consequences of her actions until she watched people on the news struggle up their streets in waste, abandoning their homes and their dogs on roofs as tears rippled down their cheeks. Japan's revolution failed, and they had further isolated their own without electricity and rescue crews; left them to fall to riots sparking in the city despite their pretense as crusaders of justice. No one made effort to come to their aid, and disease spread throughout the population until the old insisted the young leave them and save themselves. In the ghettos life was transient, but destruction and death were commonplace—strength was making the decision to move on.

_'Fucking assholes!' _She felt it buzz in her brain, and her fists shook at her sides as she stubbornly ripped a core from the rag doll that was an old Sutherland left to rot on the field. The police force were an all Britannian syndicate in a Japanese sect, which loosely translated to them only being interested in furthering their own agenda or massacring innocents. They dumped their bodies here like graveyards, and blamed the Japanese for murdering in cold blood! She saw a man, torn apart by bullets that bit holes into his mangled flesh, bloat as he was washed downstream and into the open—ugly, with the skin clothed in maggots and carrying the stench of long-since dead.

Wrenching another heart from a Knightmare, Kallen didn't think of Britannians as people, and she cursed Stadtfelt in a broken loop—again and again she wished she was Japanese alone, that her father had disowned her along with Naoto, and let her have her pride to keep. The soldiers got what they deserved; they were worthy of having the life dragged out of them by the resistance until they were limp with their eyes glossy behind their heads!

She thought of Shirley and her stomach turned as life cackled through the radio, "Q-1."

"Zero!" Ohgi said, standing alert, and she pressed cold plastic to her cheek.

"Sir?" It was tentative, betrayal still fresh in her mind as Lelouch's rasp stung her ear, low and harsh in the bowls of the speaker.

"We are taking a Sakuradite transport in three hours; report to the rendezvous point."

* * *

_AN: _Wow, a fight scene, huh . . . Also, I apologize that it isn't going to be until chapter_ four_ that I even get the Knightmare Frames out. D: (And this story desperately needs a Lelouch and Nunally scene before my muses start whining. l: So, I'd suggest that you expect one soon. )


	4. Of Kings, Queens, and Knights

**Title: **And in blood

* * *

_AN: _Haha, well, I did warn you. (I think the next two or so chapters _might_ be dark/angsty as a result of the recent rebellion. It's difficult to write a happy scenario given the surrounding chaos and the revelations the characters faced—on both a domestic _and_ global scale, the wounds are still fresh. D: So I hope you guys don't mind!

. . . That and I'm not particularly good at nor interested in cheerful, upbeat stories. . . And Suzaku is a depressing, suicidal person anyway, so he's exempt. Yeah.)

* * *

"So, Kallen . . ." The question was off-hand as it buzzed through webs of circuitry, "How's your mother been lately?"

"She's—"

It cleaved forward, rickety and wide as white streaks—Knightmares, lingering as it barreled along an abandoned strip of road— were its shadows, their steel skins gleaming under the bloody reds and bright yellows of early evening. The armored truck belonged to a Sakuradite shipping company established in old Kyoto that was mired in the details of its long history, and its cargo powered traditional lower-level vehicles and police combatants. Given her understanding of the nuances of energy conversion, it was nothing substantial or complete, but it implied a large amount of raw material that could be converted and cleaned by Chawla's team. Kallen was silent as her tracker writhed neon below her careful fingertips, and she kept low, hiding under the protection of an explosion of fresh green.

According to Zero's "dry" mission report (she was tolerant when he sneered she not question his orders, nor 'whine of uselessness.' Kallen knew confiding in that vapid C.C. was a horrid idea—following Nunally's kidnapping, his moods were black as Death himself, and his anger even_ darker_), their target was headed to the heart of the Tokyo settlement at the behest of Britannia's Witch. Carrying the imperial seal to discourage traffic, she had been informed of an escort of two Knight Police stalking close to their charge—Kallen grudgingly gave props to Lelouch, hands tense above the haze of the Guren's dashboard. The victory would _seem_ small in the short-term; temporal. Originally, she had been wary of his interest in an independent, armed shipment when they could savage from the gnarled heaps of Sutherlands, yet this was not only more practical, but also _calculating_. Capturing such a vessel would topple the Empire's plans for a public parade and later address regarding the political and domestic policies being put into play. Britannian citizens would be frustrated with their sudden disregard, as well as skeptical if answers were continuously withheld—_and_, even in the case that the Viceroy did choose to take from reserves in the prefecture, the Black Knights had destroyed major trade routes during and after their Rebellion. They would be pulling from the commonalty and effectively raising prices throughout their respective districts! That was sure to create civil unrest, regardless of whatever celebrations the bastards had in mind.

Burying the growl deep in her throat, Kallen's thoughts were cold, _'Fuck him and his C average.' _She remembered being smug about her place as top girl, yet Lelouch—that lazy, condescending _Lelouch_ who 'so deigned to come to class' was their Zero. It was loathsome; he graced them with his presence _only_ when Nunally asked or Suzaku was having trouble with some subject or another. Figures someone like _him_ would beg for help—the idiot was nothing except a slacker groveling to feed his own ambitions. 'Japanese' her ass! There was no pride for his name, fatherland, or culture!

Bitter, she hissed a ruthless, "Stupid moron!" It was comical for the son of Prime Minister Kururugi to be so weak-minded._ 'Damn it! That I'm in debt to something like __**him**__—!' _She wished to God that he would stop pretending to be noble and let her be the criminal of the Empire she was—wanted _to be—_instead of leaving her to fester in her own paranoia. Suzaku said he would not turn her over because "she was a friend," but she trusted no bastard belonging to Britannia.

_'Ugh! Thinking about him will just piss me off! What, is he trying to give __**me**__ pity!? Tch!' _Kallen readjusted the strap until it was taut across her chest and watched her sync levels rise to eight-seven percent, the red line of a bar climbing as the creaking of metal howled like ghosts. Her thoughts wandered slowly back to the mission and she cooled her frustration in the face of danger. Flexing against the stiff leather biting into her back, she knew that it was decidedly difficult to maneuver due to volatile nature of Sakuradite—if sparked, that was simply the end. There would _nothing_; no second chances, no transmissions, and no sympathy for failure. Ohgi laughed when she was sent away, and murmured a goodhearted, "And that's why we need a Queen like our Kallen." Without a striking grasp of distance and range, as well as agility and raw power, the chance of death increased nearly thirty percent. She was a master of all, and the speed ricocheted through a maze of electronics as she thundered through a sea of evergreen, red streaking the forest.

The others spun to attention, wheels sparking wisps of fire as they whirled past corners. She barked her own orders over the scream of steel against gravel, and settled comfortably into the position of leader. Zero was a contemporary who expected credit regardless of his apathy—he had taken careful effort to explain that, as the seizure was a demonstration of force rather than strictly strategic, there was no reason to give specific instructions.

Having his trust once left her trapped in pride—_narcissism_, considering the face hiding below the mask!—yet anxiety played in a mad loop in her skull, and the Lelouch she_ knew_ used pretty words. Eyes glowing above the a haze of white, Kallen felt that familiar mutter of "I am the best pilot, so . . . !" before she clutched at the controls and surged into the dying sunlight. His power was eerie and her hero worship a support she had never needed; she found herself unable to trust his secret play of marionettes. Kallen Kouzuki was no man's toy, damn it, and like hell she was afraid of those oafs in Britannia! She did not _need_ a man as two-faced as Lelouch!_ 'But . . .' _Zero had been her lifeblood, and she had wanted, so desperately, to meet his expectations. What was right and what was real were lines beginning to blur.

Blasts rang from her Glasgows veiled in the shadows, and the Police were tops tittering on their axles while the Guren flowed down the hillside. She was a twist of color as they struggled to sloppily recover, and the claw gnawed into armor, its talons a silver cage. It writhed as radiation sent it bubbling before being torn apart, and her grip was firm when flame rushed to the engines before forcing power inside and condemning the pilot to death. Both to avoid being reported _and _as revenge for the refugees in Shinjuku. Bullets buried into its fellow and Kallen destroyed it—utterly and completely, until there was no life whispering in the cockpit. She dug steel nails deep into its heart and it boiled, again confirming it as an attack by Zero's Ace and thus by the Order.

Isolated from its guard, the truck was a slow-moving line in the distance and Kallen bolted to meet it, relieved that the driver was forced to be cautious for the sake of the Sakuradite tucked safely inside. His speed was regular, and she intimidated him—glided dangerously close to the side while he shuddered and he came to a slow stop with his hands behind his head.

Her voice was muffled and dissonant, "You will turn over your cargo to the Black Knights!" There was silence before he managed a sluggish, frightened nod, and she contemplated taking him hostage as a counter-measure. The man was stocky with beady eyes and a mop of black hair—Japanese, and accepting of Britannia's earmark as a servant. She followed as he gently edged backwards into the undergrowth while her cannons glared down on him, and decided there was no merit to paying for an extra mouth.

There, in the hold, she watched him tremble and beg for his life in an broken, pathetic bagatelle until she was disgusted. A fractured sentence rang deep inside her radio, and she abandoned Japan's most broken by Britannia—gladly forgot the antithesis of her world.

- - -

The base was a tired building casting shadows over crumbled, broken pavement as the sun hung low against the coastline. Slivers of blazing yellow rippled against the tide, splintering the sea into patches of black burning like the sunset while she hid behind a wall of dark curtains. Stretched like a cat, she remembered the years when no buildings were metal mountainsides brushing the horizon; when the world was empty, a blank canvas free and then chained to creation by the artist that was humanity. Yet she could not call it beautiful—she could not grasp how beauty felt, how the mind processed ideas and concepts that were sad results of perception. A Code, she knew, was superficial; infinite and forever, but inhuman. They existed as a tool, and a piece instrumental to progress—emotion was an unimportant aspect of an animal's consciousness. Something she was not created to have now that she was Geass' bearer.

In exchange for time, they would go on creating and recreating the world until it was a sickness buried deep inside their minds. She may have lived far beyond any mortal, but she could not feel—only came to know the transience of a lifetime and not the fear of death. Mao was a blurred face behind her closed eyes, and it was comforting to pretend she loved like people did; that she was not a thing made to guide children to their deaths. She hoped he could forgive her in the next life, and that she might meet him there when she finally broke from The C. and was left for dead—_free_. Mao, and all the others she contracted and led blindly. _'Perhaps that is simply me being selfish, just as it was I who drove them to __**that**__ . . .' _

"C.C.—_C.C._!" His order was choked, and she was apathetic, having forgotten that was who he knew her as. Sometimes all her different names escaped her just as much as they did him. "You are to accompany me."

"Oh? Where."

Lelouch was harsh under his mask, "We are returning to Kaminejima."

"Ha!" She sneered dryly, and dug her fingers deeper into Cheese-kun, "And so he carries on and on."

"It is necessary that I gather information pertaining to the Order of Geass," there was a brief lapse of silence, "My plans are . . . compromised, as of the moment."

It meandered into boredom, "How do you know you'll find anything particularly useful . . ."

"Unpredictability is preferable to knowing nothing."

"Maybe so," she pitched forward, sitting upright as he sorted through his things—pulled away the cloak draped around his shoulders, "Are you taking a Knights ship?"

Lelouch hissed an acerbic, "The naval blockade is a nuisance—we will be masked as a small rescue vessel due to return to Shikinejima. There will be more trust shared between the soldiers and myself in the event we are seized given that it is, to outsiders, unarmed."

"I guess you doubt _that _will happen?"

"For the most part. Leaving Shinjuku is less suspect as they assume we already possess credentials, and are the property of the empire rather than allied with another nation," Lelouch let the gears in his mask move, peeling away the layers of clothing that were Zero's snakeskin, "As for our 'mirror,' I intend to have the Knights covertly capture and sink it prior to departure. We will then distribute its cargo to the Japanese stranded in the ghetto, as the lack of electric power should debilitate reaction time on the part of Britannia. At best, there will be little to no immediate response if Diethard is capable of directing media attention towards a distraction in the east."

She mused a simple and detached, "Oh, how kind of the legendary Zero."

"It is of the utmost importance that I reestablish myself as a face representing a free Japan. The Britannian response was decidedly slow—I will use that apathy to my advantage," he collapsed into the swivel chair and tensed under her steady, vacant stare before she turned away.

"And as for us?"

"I will stage its removal as an accident resulting from faulty Britannian engineering, and the Knights will meet us at the rendezvous point in forty-eight hours subsequent of our docking."

Her laugh was blithe and she curled her hands around Cheese-kun, "You're blowing that up as well? Very violent, aren't we—is that your 'distraction?'"

"For the time being," it was final as he shut himself off from the chaos of his world, and 'C.C.' listened to the voices crooning like lullabies in her brain.

- - -

Suzaku was exhausted as he crept the halls of the government building, eyes following officials as they charged from behind towering oak doors to the bowels of their golden brushed corridors. He heaved a sigh and propped an elbow on his crutch—he would actually be meeting Britannia's famed second prince, Schneizel el Britannia. He had little knowledge of the man save for what he offered over the phone, and could only piece a fragmented picture of a cautious strategist who enjoyed his home in the shadows. He was a regular on the war front, but tended to be restless with his conquests and moved often enough to preclude media attention. Cecile said he avoided attaching his name or beliefs to any particular agenda be it by hearsay or otherwise—that he did not tempt fate _or_ political mudslinging.

There were photographs and articles plaguing the internet, videos of his address following the Black Rebellion, but that was it—as far as the world knew, Schneizel lived without a poster face to hide behind. Shifting weight from his aching leg, he hoped that the man would simply look him over and recommend a lawyer before returning breezily to his personal guard and cave of an airship. Remembering the buzz of the harsh, mechanical voice hissing from the radio, Suzaku felt a numbing embarrassment tingle up his skin—he had been insubordinate, and then pardoned when he had garnered a right to a trial. It would be publicly humiliating for a Grand Marshall to appeal to a soldier who had failed to follow orders when face-to-face with the enemy of the general public—damn that Zero. What would he say?

_"Sir, __**clearly**__ that terrorist was able to override my will. Fled from battle? Of course not." _It was sardonic, and he eased against the wall. Considering the intricacies of Geass made him fear that he belonged in a mental institution instead of a military uniform on his _better _days. He had heard nothing of how it worked or what it came from—the blond boy had disappeared as quickly as he came, and left him with no answers or excuses. Feeling a throb deep in his skull, he forced himself to ignore those roaring thoughts and watched the second hand spin the face of the old clock hung on the wall.

"Well, reconstruction _is _necessary," he let his gaze fall on the pair and listened, irate as a result of his position, "Perhaps it would simply be better to completely rid ourselves of the Japs in the eastern ghetto and rebuild, thus expanding upon the Britannian sector? There's no need to worry about negation of the bill, now that the council's near completely Purist thanks to that bastard Zero—his reform forced all Cornelia's yes-men out, none of the populace wants 'em after _that_—"

"Excuse me," he added cynically, spinning on his heel, "but doing that would rob the entire population of their homes."

"And so?" The other said drily, weighing the importance of his regalia as a Knight of the Empire, "After that raid, who gives a damn. If they all died, we'd have a higher budget to make up for Clovis. Tell me, must _all_ of Area Eleven's Viceroys be incompetent."

"But those people—!" Suzaku felt a hand glide across his shoulder, and was bathed in sudden shadow as they snapped to silence. He whipped to greet him—a tall man with blond crimping at a sharp jaw and eyes tinted an easy, royal violet. White rippled at his feet and up his torso, golden lace lining the seams before blossoming into ruffles of cloth at the neckline.

"Now, now, let us not be abrasive towards our own. The Black Knights are merely a portion of a larger milieu, not worthy of our praise nor our fear," it was smooth as silk, his cadence deep and charming, "As I have said before, we will offer reprieve to men capable of work who are thus far left jobless, as well as send mutual aid to the Japanese and Honorary Britannians. We must act to rid ourselves of refugee and rescue expenses, am I not correct? Given the . . . incidents that proceeded their revolt, it is pertinent that we assume responsibility to reconcile our fractured relationship lest we face further pointless resistance."

"Ah, Your Highness," it was languid, and they turned to disappear, "Always wonderful to see you well."

"Compromise is the prerequisite to our continued coexistence. You are excused, and the pleasure is entirely mine," he kept a cheerful mask, and Suzaku had no words as Schneizel swiveled to face him, "Suzaku Kururugi, I presume? I apologize for my actions in Shikinejima—naturally, it is difficult to sacrifice a life, and particularly a young one."

Having expected to apologize profusely for his mistakes, he spluttered a stupefied, "Ah—nevertheless, sir, it was my failure."

"If you insist," his hand hung there in midair and Suzaku's twitched at his side, but did not move, "No handshake? Are we shy."

Shocked into a response, he managed a jittery, "No, please pardon my rudeness, Your—" and grasped it firmly, keeping a blank face when they locked eyes.

"Haha," he let it drop casually, lips quirked into a smile, "Considering that we will be seeing quite a bit of each other, there is no need for such formality. Come now, our partner in crime is waiting, I expect."

Suzaku considered himself well-versed in Britannia's world of kings, but found he was surprisingly humbled while stiff footsteps bounded from behind, melting into still air.

"Schneizel!" It was an explosion of sound as Cornelia marched the corner, face drawn into a frown cold as steel, "Damn you, how dare you not contact me in regards to your return?! Of all the_ foolish things_—"

"Ah, Cornelia," his answer was amiable, "I see you are healing well."

She snarled a dark, "You arrogant ass!"

"Yes, yes—although it _can_ be ignored provided you choose not to take it personally. Don't pull, please, it isn't polite when we have company . . ."

Suzaku was silenced as she seethed and dragged him into an empty office, and Knight Guilford stood at attention, hands folded before he forced a brusque, "You seem to be recovering well."

It was distant while he worked to recover his composure, "Yes, thank you, sir. Um, but is it really all right for them to behave like that in front of the soldiers . . . ?"

"Well," Gilbert began carefully, amused beneath his icy facade, "Second prince Schneizel and her Highness are only on such good speaking terms. I imagine that is simply part of how they interact."

Silence was his company and Suzaku plucked at the brittle, clinging fabric of his uniform. It was stretched taut and far too new, the collar clawing at his throat until it burned from trapped heat. The military supplied him with a replica of his last, all fresh and pearly-colored after—and he stopped then as crimson, glossy and viscous, pooled in his mind's eye; too much of _her _blood seeping deep into him as they faded to rusty stains on that _thing _he wanted so desperately to forget.

The sick feeling that clung to him these days latched on again, and he swallowed hard while numbness threaded through his fingers. Now was not the time and this was not the place—too loud, and too many people to let himself fall to his depression, yet he _remembered_. No matter where he ran to, it was a shadow stalking close behind.

Suzaku was relieved as the door opened in a soft hiss, Cornelia striding to greet her entourage, "Guilford! We are leaving."

She hesitated as she let her gaze fall on him, and gave no acknowledgment before choking out a candid, "Soldier. Speak to me when you are addressed."

"Yes, Your Highness," Suzaku dropped into an awkward bow, still clutching to the support of his crutch.

It was slow and rehearsed, "I am cordially inviting you to visit late Princess Euphemia's grave."

"_When—_!" He crushed the urgency trickling into his words, "Ah, if you would be so humbled, Your Highness."

"Two days from now," Cornelia stated flatly, slipping away from him, "And I expect to collect you at eight in the morning. Sharp. Carry on as directed."

Schneizel was a ghost watching their exchange before he murmured an indifferent, "Very strange. She seems to like you well enough—but if we may?"

- - -

Lelouch carried all his frustration back to the Ashford's summer villa—it was an old thing caged between rows of Yoshino Cherry, with gardens teasing at a twist of an intricate iron fence. Bursts of warm red and white blossoms spilled into the gravel pathways as he dragged a steel case up the stairwell and onto the porch jutting from the eastern wall. The mansion was a strange, empty place Milly suggested after 'complaining to her grandfather of Nunally's weak health'—it carried an isolated air, regal on its perch as it overlooked a rolling Japanese countryside.

He had never given any thought to the fickle student council president; analyzing her motivations was searching for depth in a shallow pool. It came as a distant shock that Milly knew he was Zero—and, in hindsight, it was almost_ too _disgustingly fitting. With Nunally tucked away in his arms, he made to take her back to the safety of Ashford and he found _her_ standing on the threshold, paper-straight blonde hair falling free and loose at her shoulders. Her face was shadowy in the cover of evening, and her skin dyed a sickly milk white under the moonlight.

_"Lelouch, I know you hate the Empire—really, after you protected the academy, I was positive. I . . . well, I'm sorry that I never believed all those things you used to say . . ." _

_ ". . ." _

_ "My parents, grandfather . . . Ashford. You hate me, even. But you know, I wouldn't mind if Britannia fell."_

_ "Milly. You do realize what you are doing is considered treason against the Empire." _

_ "Haha, I know, I know. But what have they done for me, hmm? So, I can __**forget **__about Zero. Besides, all you need is a house to live in, and we've been giving you that for years. Grandfather says I'm his favorite—he'll listen if I lie __**a bit**__." _

_ "I—" _

_ "Don't get so arrogant and start rattling off thanks, though. There are conditions! No matter what I dress you up in, you __**have **__to accept, and whenever I want, too." _

_ ". . . That's unusually cruel." _

_ "Of course! What else would __**I**__ be? Besides, I couldn't leave poor Nunally without her obsessive, overprotective elder brother." _

_ ". . . Ha. Thank you, then." _

To think that someone so capricious nursed a deep-rooted rage towards the Royal House—she was sly enough to wrap him in her game of cat and mouse until he was blind-sighted by her false grins. After abandoning the skeleton of Kururugi Shrine, Lelouch did not trust the sad, pity-filled glances of privileged adults who were never orphaned. No one understood Nunally when she could see only seas of black and was confined to that, _that chair _after watching their Mother bleed red stains across the tile. No one could imagine how it felt to leave Suzaku at the mercy of Britannia while soldiers massacred Japan until its nation was a land of corpses. To concede because he was a _child—_it was the same damn excuse, the same damn _weakness_ again and again!

When he reacquainted himself with Ashford's daughter, he hated everything and everyone; wished to God his father would simply die on his throne, and take his bastard, racist heirs to hell with him. His life was an elegy to things he cared for that were stolen and tarnished by the Empire—he had only Nunally, who had _nothing_, and he kept her secret from the cold, repulsive reality they were thrown into. Days would pass in small defeats until he was forced into Ashford's mold, and he cursed himself and the pretentious smiles of their golden-glided prisons. He gave into them, _begged_ to be a hostage in exchange for protection, and whenever morning seeped into the prefecture he woke to his anger and society's indifference. Victims were simply forgotten, and thus he was beaten into pessimism and tolerance of prejudice for the sake of silence.

Lelouch had no interest in wondering if there was some quiet, buried part of Milly that understood hopelessness, because it was not like _his _misery. He had no home to run to, no family whose open arms he trusted in. They were not kindred, he knew, but she was born into a same rage—drowned in the frustration that wrought Zero. She had expectations weighing on her shoulders, and she too fastened together a colorful mask to show the world. Milly Ashford was a woman of deceit, and she was loyal to her own—realized that they were accomplices relishing in the same sins. When that antechamber fell to thunderous false peace, he gave her an order: that she would steal the schematics of the Lancelot verbally, and to the best of her ability. Their manipulation would be mutual, after all, and Suzaku was never taciturn no matter how quiet he kept—enough 'nice' suggestion and she could easily weasel whatever information he needed to sell to Chawla.

He felt for the light switch, and his lips quirked at the idea of her allied with the Order. There was no hatred in him reserved for Milly; he had come to appreciate Ashford and its manicured stretches of lawn and thick white walls. Lelouch was not one to blame the young for the mistakes of their fathers, and she _was_ being exceptionally kind considering she gave them a villa to themselves.

It was soft and low, easing into his heart as it weaved in from the drawing room, "Brother?"

"Ah, Nunally?"

She was seated at the table, papers scattered below her careful hands—origami, as expected, "Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be," it was gentle as he took the chair to her right, brushing waves of curls from her cheeks, "I'm happy as long as you're happy."

The response came slow and broken, "You're okay with going to night classes? I miss you . . ."

He was wounded by the ache in her voice, "I'm sorry I can't stay with you—"

"Oh, it's not your fault, brother!" Nunally insisted, her words jumbled as she pieced them together, "I didn't mean for it to sound that way . . ."

"Nunally—"

Shifting against the leather, she brushed delicate fingers over his own, "I'm just worried . . . Everyone is still at school, and Suzaku . . . We didn't get to say goodbye because he was in the hospital, and we only found him again just a little while ago . . ."

"He's . . ." Lelouch choked on the anger threatening to spill into his voice, tightening his grip as their warmth melted into one another.

"Why did he lie about being on the front lines?" It was a weak whisper, "I'm nervous—he's never done anything like that before . . . I don't want anything to happen . . ."

". . ."

"And Euphie," her voice cracked between fresh sobs, "She wanted us all to be together . . . Suzaku, too . . . but all those poor people—"

He tugged her into his arms, wondering desperately how she knew—he had taken necessary measures to keep the events proceeding the SAZ hushed, as she needed rest after the kidnapping regardless of whatever she remembered. Moving had taken a toll on them both, but she had been ecstatic to return to her schooling—it seemed as though news of Euphemia had poisoned her there.

"Why? She would _never _do anything so cruel . . ."

"It wasn't her," Lelouch felt disgusted with himself—he had accepted that the time for tears was long since passed. Euphemia had died a twisted martyr and crying did nothing for her memory, "It was the Britannian Army, never Euphemia. The—that was a result of the government using her without concern for the people; that's simply how they are. Do you understand, Nunally?"

"You—you loved Euphie, didn't you? I'm sorry . . ."

She paled in contrast to Nunally, and he swept the tears from her face, "Don't fret on my account."

He listened uneasily as she forced a ragged, "But . . ."

"I should only have to do that for you," Lelouch finished tenderly and let Nunally's hair slip through his fingers, clutching her until her whimpers died in her throat.

". . ."

Quiet settled in like a veil thrown over the room while Sayoko drew the curtains, stars suffocated behind the heavy lines of cloth. His heart throbbed in his chest as she trembled, frail and shattered by her anxiety, and she shielded herself in his embrace before they separated.

He controlled the desperation in his voice, "I ca—"

"No, it's okay. I'll be fine—you've been working hard, right? I'm sure there are things you want to do, too . . ." Lelouch made a special effort to cling to her hand and insist before slipping into the hall, suddenly dyed in seas of gentle gray as he climbed for the second story. It was empty—a long stretch of white with bulbs sending webs of light darting across a full, blood-colored carpet—and he felt himself go weak as sneers played in his skull. Had he failed her?! Was he so worthless, unable to create a world she could be happy in?! _'Why, damn it!'_ The vase sparked an easy sky blue beneath the limelight, and he felt energy rush through numb fingers—there was a lull of treacherous silence before he sent it crashing into the floor, the porcelain exploding into shards waltzing across tile while he seethed, fists balled and shaking.

"Brother?!" Nunally called, and he spun back to attention, "Are you all right?"

Returning to an easy-going mask of apathy, he managed a convincing, "Damn—slipped. It's nothing for you to concern yourself with."

Standing there in a shadowy curve of a hall, he was denied his perfect world; he was denied his everything. Lelouch could barely keep himself from rampaging, he was far too repulsed, far too frustrated, and he detested the world and all its pretenses—traitorous Suzaku and his lies, Britannia and its abuse of power, apathy for the weak—while he was caught in a self-made absolute pin. The irony was painful enough to split his head in two, and he stole into his room to watch the windows flash across his computer screen.

* * *

_AN:_ I'm getting ready to introduce some major plot points now. . . Also, I think Milly would have made an interesting terrorist. Now, I'm not sure if she actually carries any grudge against the imperial family, but, honestly, I don't care. :D; I'm also assuming her grandfather is the patriarch, and therefore free to send Lelouch and Nunally wherever he likes. (It's not as though they carry much political weight other than exposing the monarchy's choice to hide their deaths from the public, so I doubt he really cares where they go as long as they remain under the jurisdiction of an Ashford. Milly and her Aunt, in this case. )

. . . Anyway, review if you can. D: (I'm worried my Schneizel was off. . .)


	5. For pasts a rose and for futures a rose

**Title:** And in blood

* * *

_AN: _I had six hours to write in in-school detention. _Six_. (I mean, I like getting this out of the way just as much as anyone else, but I have to damn the education system for making me sit _that_ long. D: It wouldn't be fair otherwise.)

Also, I hope this chapter's not too depressing . . . (Er, yeah, I totally lied about that 'might' last time. l:( )

* * *

Light clawed through heavy leaves and sent sun streaking broken earth, trees left to shudder as the sea breeze stroked their bark. Lelouch eased his way into the beating heart of the island, still hiding in the skin of soldier—a gray uniform with honors that was heavy on his bones, and taken from a defect who sold them his loyalty to Britannia—while the horizon painted his eyes in swathes of blue and fresh green. C.C. was his ghost, a shadow of a woman tracing his footsteps with an empty expression and clothed in a stewardess' regalia. Their vessel was a corpse swallowed by the mouth of the Pacific sea; she had maneuvered it further after sending Lelouch off in a lifeboat, and, as flame rolled through a web of hallways, plunged into the ocean. She swam the length her boat traveled and arrived about four hours behind schedule, but there was simply nothing he could do in that regard.

When she crawled onto the shore and stretched, C.C. said nothing until he sneered that she was late. There was a silence that permeated, sinking into the air, and she muttered a blunt "I drowned once or twice" before his stomach turned. Immortality made her a vital asset—she was not bound by death, and so he sent her on suicide missions; the kind that needed a success, but not a sacrifice—but Lelouch was a man still trapped in the palms of the Reaper. He was not cruel, and he preferred to ignore that he had sent her to hell and back for his sake regardless of C.C.'s apathy. He lived for Nunally's sake, and, watching her move fluid as water—separating and reappearing below the light, yet whole—his thoughts were eerie: C.C. had long since died a thousand deaths, but there she was. Alive and healed, even though her lungs had taken in water and then pushed it out as she choked on air. Normal physical limitations were myths to her. Could she be separated into pieces? Did her limbs regrow afterward?

It was morbid, and he wondered what exactly C.C. _was_. It was twisted to imagine something that existed beyond evolution; a creature not built for the past, the present, nor the future. Simply alive, for eternity. Lelouch had made attempts to force her into considering becoming a test subject for Chawla—medicine would be pushed forward ten fold if they could recreate her cells, but she had refused, and the computer screens buzzed to black when he had a physical administered against her will.

_"There is only one other like me in the world," _it hissed like the clock ticking, _"And __**that**__ cannot be remade. Only idiots can't understand that."_ Lelouch had been insulted in front of his subordinates—made into a _fool_—and locked her away in his room to lick his wounds. She was unashamed of the hatred laughing at the Knight's hero wrought, and far too old to worry about the opinions of others who were doomed to die while she stayed young. He understood that she kept all her knowledge silent because that made her _invaluable_, and Lelouch needed nothing and no one that was replaceable. But damn her running mouth; she was too arrogant, completely disregarded the importance of structure!

On his worse days, he isolated her from the world—from his plans, his life—because she was abnormal and a manipulator. She attracted attention with her quiet stare and secret, double-faced ambitions, and Lelouch had always been the liar when it came down to it. But C.C., he mused, was the lie itself; her lives were multiple, and he was unable to pry them apart. There was a child who wore her face once, but he had seen a million others inside her head. Perhaps even, and the thought chilled his blood, his own when it was young and wide-eyed.

"Are you thinking about it?" Her eyes were knowing—a twisted, alien gold alive in the cover of shadow, "I have died many times, and in more ways then someone like you can imagine, probably."

"A human body should suffer severe brain damage from asphyxia," his statement was blunt, "Yet, you are . . ."

"Not human? That's one way to put it," she finished coolly, with something ugly creeping in her smile.

"Were you," he was careful to keep it unemotional; blank. Lelouch may have feared death and death alone, but he would never voice an obsession, "in pain when you passed on?"

"Not from that," C.C.'s answer was dry, "There are worse ways to die, Lelouch."

"How parasitic," he muttered darkly, and she watched—studied as he slipped into the undergrowth, "V.V. appears to echo your. . . conditions."

It came slow, trickled from her open mouth in careful syllables, ". . . Are you curious?"

"Curious?" Lelouch parroted stiffly, feeling his head reel at the thought of her ripping into his pride. She learned he was just as human as the next man when they first met in the ruins of the ghetto, and he had spent years hiding from his own weakness. Anyone who can die can also tremble before the end; finality was the true nature of fear, and that was why the Geass was buried in his eye. Angry, Lelouch realized that he needed it back, or he was just another pathetic lamb headed for the slaughter.

"Would you," the gold was waltzing with amber, and it_ blazed_, "become immortal?"

His answer was silence, "There is no merit as of now, C.C. I do not need the protection of immortality."

It drifted back to indifference, "Hmm . . ."

Lelouch tried to choke it down, but the words tore from his throat, "Although I may consider it under certain circumstances, given my intentions. If it was for Nunally's new world . . . "

"He is as devious as he looks! 'Those who shoot are ready to be shot,' eh," C.C.'s passion was gone, and she turned toward the sea and _murmured _as though she were talking to air, ". . . Hm. Well, maybe. Lelouch. Is it because living forever is something no ordinary man can have?"

His glare burned into her before he snarled a furious, "I will _excuse _your insinuations. Exactly how long have you—"

C.C. sneered a callous and unforgiving, "Asking nicely will not weasel information out of me. I expected you to know better by now."

Rage took hold of his heart and he snapped his mouth close, biting down on retorts bubbling up from the darker pits of his brain. There was no point in throwing insults at C.C.—she was the immovable object _and_ the irresistible force personified. He twisted on his heel and dug heavy, steel-toed boots into mud as he trudged up the path cutting through the dunes. Legs aching in protest, he scoffed at empty patches of concrete where buildings stood, burned by the government to rid themselves of evidence.

"I expected as much. C.C. We—" He was shocked as she wiped tears from blank eyes with her mouth drawn into a frown, "Why are _you_ crying?!"

". . . You were saying?" It was empty and deadpan.

Lelouch was quiet before he force-fed a cold, ". . . We are going to return to the excavation site."

"Without your Geass?" C.C. returned easily to her regular detachment. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, because she had never left it all, "What if there are soldiers?"

"Britannia has been stretched thin fighting off resistance by the Black Knights and their copy-cats," Lelouch was casual as he swept past her, "I doubt they have much interest in Clovis' pet projects. If this is indeed backed by the monarchy, stationing troops in such an isolated location would draw unnecessary attention to their cult."

They descended and he tugged the cellphone free as midday settled into the world. _'Tch. Already past two.'_ The sun hung in the sky while the sea cooed serenades to the earth, little more than an ink spill of blue-green waving in the gaps of thick trees; completely changed since he had last wandered its wild spin of tropical plants and white splays of sand.

She flared behind his eyes, that familiar, brilliant smile and those thulian pink ringlets rippling down her spine: _'Euphemia.' _What felt likeso long ago, it was her at his side, rambling of the nobility and in tears as she whispered she was happy he and Nunally were safe. It was the faint brush of honeysuckle and lilac, gentle curves that blossomed in adolescence, and the rebirth of childhoods that die in the womb.

Roses had bloomed, opened to him, and shriveled in the sun as their Eden trembled and collapsed; a bloody rose for a bloody revolution, a bloody martyrdom. Their buds do not, could not grow over graves—a common belief of the Catholic faith and their mother was a religious woman, that much he remembered. Euphemia was the pariah of Britannia to the Japanese, but it was her that fostered their rebellion, and shattered its tentative, weak supports when she offered her hand and her unity. They clamored for freedom because of his Geass order, his Massacre Princess, his crude satire of guilt and blame.

She was his first love, but never his Guinevere, Eurydice, Josephine. He had been too young to be Adam in the garden all those years ago, and Euphemia was the rose—nothing else. She was a stranger built of expectations when they met again, and he acknowledged that he_ must_ accept that or he would never be able to force himself forward. Lelouch could not cling to the past because that was all there was of Euphemia and the dead corpse of the Eleventh Prince. That golden era ended; changed when he left behind his father. It was fate the moment the gun, cold and heavy, felt like home in his hands against Clovis' forehead. She was as much a potential murder as any other prince or princess who conspired against Nunally's future.

Lelouch had no right to guilt. No right to beg for her forgiveness from heaven or hell or wherever God sent his innocents. He was not Suzaku with his altruism and beliefs in the autonomy of living creatures and an absolute claim to life; Lelouch had killed many in cold blood, and they were all his sacrifices, his saints that were sent to early graves. Euphemia echoed Shirley's father, the soldier with a family waiting for him, or the children playing in the gorge below Narita's mountainside that were too naïve to see their own deaths creeping in the crags. The Geass was not his choice, but once he asserted that _she_ had brought about their genocide he remade himself as a monster; it was for the greater good, the best possible option in the worst possible world. Pleading with a ghost was spitting on the ones who loved her. Lelouch was walking hell's rose path—knee deep in carnage, but that would not fracture his resolve. Crying was never worth a tear.

_'It's in the past,' _he reminded himself, and his memories were films where the bullet barreled through her chest and tore the skin before exiting. It took hours of those suffocating thoughts before they reached the crumbling body of the shrine and Lelouch stumbled back inside, drowned in sensation—the reminders of Nunally's kidnapping, and of that fear tingling up his numb arms. Suzaku's blood had dulled to a rust stain; sank into the stone as tribute.

"C.C.," he was stiff, and she twirled the flashlight in her hands, "Use this as directed." Lelouch sifted through his pockets and brushed the cold plastic of a camera before he eased it into the stale air.

She arched an eyebrow as he fiddled with the lens cap, "_My, _a photographer_, _eh . . . What could he be taking pictures of."

"Please, C.C.,try not to be irrelevant," Lelouch ran careful fingers over hieroglyphs, gently digging into the rock, "The foundation seems to be stronger than expected. It is in good condition, given its age—surprising."

Something in him was left unnerved after Nunally was safely hidden behind the blankets in her bedroom. The architecture showed no Japanese-Korean influence, primarily built of stone and with something truly Grecian about its rows of stairwells and towering pillars. Its structure was far too old to belong to a recently established order, yet traces of the cult survived in the sigil drawn across the doorways shadowing the northernmost wall—he assumed that it was a revival of some undocumented, obscure religion, but it seemed there were elements of ancient Vedic Sanskrit and Latin in the language. That would imply massive migration, as Kaminejima had no natural land bridges, and, based on his investigation, there were no records of permanent civilizations excavated by Britannia in recent years. And that_ thing_ lying in wait at the end of that staircase to eternity, suspended and defying all laws of physics—eluding the entire nature of reality!

_'Multiple languages. . . The Tower of Babel, eh . . .'_ Yet that was surely myth; it was impossible to hide the existence of an entire culture from the media's limelight. A haze of white stalked after his hands as C.C. followed, restless and wary of his intentions._ 'Damn, if only I hadn't been so quick to kill that idiot Clovi—! __**Inanna's**__ eight pointed star? That is . . . '_

"This is a very strange detour," she muttered, tearing herself away from him and leaving Lelouch to drown in a sea of black.

"What are you doing!" It was bitter as acid, and he bolted to his feet.

C.C. turned the light to her face, casting a shadow across her pale skin, ". . . Looking."

Massaging his throbbing temples, Lelouch mumbled a broken, ". . . Do you take _nothing_ seriously . . . "

- - -

A tomb jutted from the earth, its statue draped in chiseled robes and made like an angel as it mourned the fallen lying under its feet. Bluebells wept over alabaster and marble, painting it a deep navy before white bursts of camellia and lilac melted into the warm greens of Japanese Pendula. He heard a fountain sing elegies as water trickled into its pool, the chorus swelling and surging in a gentle croon. Gravel hissed when he walked, and Suzaku felt a lonely weight clinging to his shoulders and gripping at his heart in a world where it was unbearably empty but had too many bodies.

Euphemia was removed by her personal guard after Schneizel sent troops to quell the disaster that was the SAZ, and then buried at the Princess' request. The council refused to inearth her charred remains in Pendragon's royal graveyard to avoid association with a—with Euphie, but Cornelia gave her a grave site at the Viceroy's palace. Her funeral was private, limited to the imperials that came to weep over her headstone, and Suzaku was grateful they had the decency to force out a media that would grin at news of her caricature of genocide.

The inscription was a curvy loop of thick calligraphy blooming across the face, and he was paying tribute to a hollow part of himself as he read it.

_'One threatens the innocent who spares the guilty.'_

Euphemia li Britannia died at sixteen—had the life wrenched from her weeks before her birthday, and days after she smiled beautifully, was _wonderful _and rosy and alive, and murmured that she was glad to see his shrine. That it brought the two of them closer—let her share the world he was too afraid to voice, the pain that was so deep and so raw that death was a blessing. She had not graduated; had said no farewells; had been nestled in his arms while he was sobbing over her limp body as the room was peaceful and Japan collapsed beyond the protection of the window glass.

Suzaku could only manage a shattered and weak, _'. . . Euphie, it isn't fair.'_ She was young, brave, kind, and simply _amazing_ from his place of false smiles and fatalism, where there was nothing but the destiny he created for himself. Euphemia could have chosen anyone, whereas he was doomed to solitude and the end. When she danced through the rose bushes in her gardens, she careened on her axis and took the entirety of the world with her until it was a spin of colors and things that might have been, but were not—moved fluid as red petals tangled in the wind, guiltless and free wherever they fell.

Shuddering, he dropped to one knee and knew that everything he had of her now were memories, lies, and that headstone. His fingers curled around the watch weighing against his pocket and he was gentle as he dangled it above the dirt, its sterling silver gleaming under the sunlight. With a melodramatic flourish, Lloyd had returned it to him and waxed that the soldiers and coroners had no use for it. He could recall how it felt in his hands, heavy and nostalgic of the days it hung at his father's hip when he was not a corpse—and, back pressed against the walls in the hallway, Suzaku _cried_ because it was worthless, yet there was nothing more important to him. It ticked, a metallic echo bounding off steel, while the hand whirled a thousand revolutions per minute in a reality where there was no Euphemia anymore; where he had no home, no family, no sympathy, and no faith in himself.

Disgusted, Suzaku could only string together thoughts of, _'if she was here, what would I say?' _Would he force that same smile he wore when he choked out lies and tell her how he worked himself to death at school because it would have made her happy? That he loved her _so much_, and then whisper, low and broken, how he would never have let her go that day. That he would have begged them to him follow her keep Lelouch from—from being _that monster_ he became. That their friendship culminated when they separated and the car slipped away into the skeleton that was his country. Would she abhor that he_ chose _to shoot because they deserved it for glorifying something so wicked, and she was his reason for rushing headlong into battle? That he had killed willingly and in blind rage.

Suzaku had tried, _tried so damn hard_ to be a good person; to be open and see everyone as human even when they beat him into the dirt with their prejudice and rhetoric. The future was capturing air in his world then, because he needed to be redeemed for everything he had selfishly inflicted on his Japan. If he was thinking about it, then it was in passing—foolish, two-faced ephemerals like, "will it rain? If it does, I should take the bus, but where to get change?"—as he waited for the bullet to tear him in half.

Taking the bus always meant sitting in the back or getting out of the way. In his worst moments, there were lulls of indulgence where he realized he preferred the smoke of the gun, but Suzaku Kururugi was a number, an officer, and not paid to think.

That was what he was told at fifteen in a line of others who put a price on their lives. Being a soldier did not translate into being a martyr, but he had been young enough to believe it in the days when he was uncorrupted and vulnerable. It was a stupid thing to remember—like mood rings and how his was easy green; the haunting, forbidden glint of swords before they were weapons; the dining hall his father never used. How he would walk down the roads of Shinjuku's heart and listen to the construction outside of Ashford while the city breathed alongside him. People remember the stupid things and he wanted to know more of _her_, but he had only death to cling to—no matter how he struggled, it was trauma that was burned into his mind and he wanted to have something, _anything_ that did not eventually shrivel and die.

He had really, genuinely loved him. Felt _lonely_ when he meandered the cobblestone path outside their threshold and Lelouch broke his promise to meet him and walk together in the morning. It had been seven years of separation, and he remembered that stiff, discriminating face that sneered at canned food and whined about dirt stains. A quiet, buried part of him wondered what they had done while he was gone: had they been happy, lived good lives? Been given the protection of normalcy while he was stranded on the streets? Had Lelouch cycled through best friends—was he another face now, forgotten and condemned to melt with the crowd? When they found each other, he was elated since they could rebuild their childhood world of three, and it was draining to argue in that empty student council room. He would wait until night seeped over a jagged skyline before smiling and _apologizing_ because Lelouch did not think he was listening. Mutter that he did not necessarily agree, but that was fine because they understood one another; could simply overlook differences in opinion, although that was never Lelouch's way.

Suzaku gritted his teeth and knew that he had not cared about the nature of his arguments—could only pretend that he did not think him an idiot who could never manage the right answer. Or even his_ own_ answer. Lelouch always laughed that it was his right to lead and others to follow, after all.

Sitting there with his knees wet with dew, Suzaku did not believe he was stupid, and he did not believe he was wrong. No one deserved to die violently for wars they never committed to, for souls and sadists who stole them from their safe-heavens. It was simply _cruel_ how he could involve civilians in his fight and go on to hide behind pretense and body bags. When they were children, all wide-eyed and surprised at how far the horizon stretched before it met infinity, they painted the world for themselves. Made colors of truth and blind faith to run into their background, and were full of a potential that could have created something superb rather than a black, muddy canvas. Yet they were no longer young, and Suzaku was burying the Lelouch he knew and Euphemia—two loves who died far too early.

Suzaku was gentle as he rested it delicately on her tombstone and felt the burn of tears behind his closed eyelids. He had not understood love when he met her; being ashamed, afraid, and secretive left him alienated and alone in a world of thousands. He had known only his relatives and their outrage at his patricide—always felt he was rejected long before he was acquainted. Euphemia said she loved him, and it made him sick that there was a private, desolate ghost inside him that doubted her. A fragment that remembered blood and shame so well it did not trust anything else. Love was a fickle, self-serving passion, and it was harder to understand her because he continued to ache with feeling and she was _gone._ Suzaku had lost before, but not like this, when he had been so cut off and lonely and she had _loved him_.

_"You should be less reckless," _she chided, jittery as he pulled gloves over scars from days he stumbled and caught the blade instead of the hilt,_"because it would be terrible if anything happened to you . . ." _He was oblivious to her concern since she was careful with that smile she hid behind—Euphemia had been afraid for him and it felt removed, _distant_. Suzaku lost all claims to normality when he was disowned by a family who wanted nothing to do with the instigator of their fallen legacy, and he lived in chaos; there was no meaning to caution when he could die, when tomorrow was not guaranteed because he had nowhere to live. He never wanted to frighten her, but sacrifice was the only thing he had left to give to the world.

He despised Lelouch and his lies these days, but he could still value his sophistries when they_ meant_ something, and he could think of one—a conversation after they both scrambled into the devil's den that was Mao's cathedral and he had been exposed for everything he was, but wished he had never been.

_"Suzaku." _

_ "Huh? What?" _

_ "A sacrifice done without recognition or meaning is worthless. Your dying will not change the fate of the Japan we know now." _

_ "Lelouch . . ." _

_ "It is arrogant to assume that one life somehow rivals that of thousands. Therefore, you should continue living in the name of those who have died, provided you are devoted to your atonement." _

_ ". . ." _

_ "I will not claim to relate to what you experienced in those seven years we were apart—" _

_ "You __**are**__ the kind of guy who hates to talk about the past . . ."_

_ "—but I believe you will reconsider such propitiation. That is cowardice, and . . . contrary to what you are. Death is too permanent a factor, and we are too young to be such cynical adults—thus, if you cannot live for your sake, then choose the world's. Work towards a goal that can benefit your people's nation. __**All **__of it, Suzaku." _

That Geass continued to lie dormant inside his skull, and he could not cling to sacrifice to protect himself from reality. Irregardless, he did not want to endure only through Lelouch's orders; only because survival had been demanded of him. Suzaku wanted to choose how he died _and_ how he lived.

Shivering on her deathbed, Euphemia cooed that she wanted the two of them to be together, and they could be. She promised to change the world to something kinder, and he would carve that path for her if no one else rose to the challenge. Suzaku had always been an observer, simply watched Euphemia strive towards her peaceful world, but that was disregard. He would create it with his own hands now, even if it implied he had to change himself to accomplish that goal. Even if he had to kill Lelouch to make it possible.

That was his oath, his creed, his motivation in a world where he _had_ to stay alive, and he wanted that watch to stay as a memento. It was all that was truly his and, if his memories were a part of her, she would have a part of him to keep. Suzaku felt the sting of slick, hot tears as he choked out a simple "I love you" and tensed when the teeth of steel gauntlets gnawed into his shoulder.

"Sol—Suzaku Kururugi," Cornelia's voice was severe and controlled, but her shaking fingers betrayed her, "Get up. The time for tears is over."

* * *

_AN: _Damn, Suzaku has _motivation_?! Maybe he can finally stop digging his own grave! (Ha, yeah right. I'll believe that when I see it.) Hmm, I hope this chapter was on par, guys. D: And it is true that red roses represent martyrdom, and 'Euphemia' actually was taken from a martyr. In _history_. (Screw you namesake. )': You killed my OTP in the womb.)

. . . Ah, and thanks for reading, as usual! (And, for people with slash-glasses, I intended for Suzaku's mentions of 'love' to be platonic, but hey. Think of it however you want.)


	6. A song for a young queen

**Title: **And in blood

* * *

_AN: _This chapter is all yours, Kallen. That aside, **I have to change one fact from canon, which would be Kallen's revealing herself at Ashford. In this AU, that never happened. **

* * *

The picture was a weight, heavy with nostalgia and idealism before reality coiled its chains around the world—carried with it a time when Naoto wasn't a corpse too mangled to identify, left for dead by a cell who had never fought, never knew the fear of death. By cowards who called themselves the Japanese resistance, but were nothing except rats afraid of Britannia's iron hand. In days when she was small and the Earth was large, and things meant something because they _were_, not because of the secret motivations that made them.

"It must be nice being as lazy as you are," it was silky and ran like poison as her stepmother slipped into the room, "Some of us have to work for what we get instead of stealing from our fathers. Oh, but I guess you don't understand that."

_'Shut up! That's all you do!'_ The woman was a slut kept to hang off her father's arm; to let him masquerade as a man younger than he was, and more impressive to bastards willing to let their eyes drink in a body instead of a person. An idiot he paraded like a trophy because she was Barbie perfect and blonde and Britannia—the embodiment of three prerequisites to status and power. The thing he adopted to remove suspicion of mingling with a Japanese woman in some other life. _'Coward! Take responsibility—why the hell did you even __**have **__children!' _

She hated them both. Britannia, all of it. Kallen was eager to steal back to the rebels—they were her family, the people she cared about. They accepted a young, eighteen year old girl with a crooked grin that liked her hair messy and natural while playing 'boy's games.' This was just a hellhole of codependency and pretense; not a home, not a place where she could be herself. Nothing.

It came slow and deliberate, "You've been going out a lot lately."

She kept careful control of the anger spilling into her voice, "I can do what I like."

"Well, I just don't want you dirtying up your father's good name. Running around all hours of the night . . . we can't afford anymore harlots in this household, after all," she paused, lips pulled into a tight frown, "But I suppose Eleven women aren't worth much more than cleaning beds or spreading their legs on them—"

"Shut up, you bitch!" Her hand connected, the sound cracking the tentative silence, and she crumbled into a heap, clutching at her cheek as it flared angry red.

Her hiss was hateful as it tore from her throat, "Get out, ungrateful brat! You are lucky you even live here, and not out on the streets like some urchin!"

Kallen fought her grip when she clawed at her wrist and bolted out into the safety of the hallway, "Fine, I'll go! Who even gives a damn about you—you're a bigot, and going to hell, too!"

She spat a furious, "I don't need to take this from a filthy little mixed girl! Get out, get out of my house!"

"Ha! It's not your house! You're just my father's whore, and he'll leave you like all the rest!" Hurtling past the door frame, she watched as twilight cast a blanket of shadow over the world as it seeped into the city streets, setting the horizon ablaze in a hazy glow of fiery orange and red. In a blur of motion, she tugged Naoto's headband free and threaded it through a veil of paper-straight auburn. He would be so damn ashamed if he saw her now—listened to the fights, the insults they threw at her before false peace exploded into accusations and verbal abuse, and how she accepted it like a _weakling_.

The woman's personality was a disease in and of itself, but Kallen burned at the thought that she truly believed the shit that spewed from her mouth. She trusted in the Emperor's eugenics, his promises that White Anglo-Saxon Protestants were a chosen race born to lord over others like false gods! Agreed that _she_ was empowered as soon as she left the womb! The bitch had never worked, never done anything praiseworthy except smear herself in make-up and sneer how everyone did not meet her expectations! The stupid, arrogant fool did not even think on her own—simply sat idly by and parroted the views of her _father_!

It echoed in her skull, low and harsh as Zero was bathed in caked blood:

_'You, who use the name of Stadtfelt to further your own agenda. Does your life reflect that of your Japan? You __**use**__ the weak, just as I do.'_

No, Kallen Kouzuki _protected_ the weak! She was defending them, making sure they could hide behind the steel of her Knightmare Frame! Protecting them from people like _her, _like that idiot of a stepmother! So what if she only had a Guren because she stole from her father—the man had deserved it! Britannians beat and discriminated the Japanese in the first place! She _needed_ their privilege or she could not have done anything, and that was the simple truth. She represented Japan; she was victimized, had faced prejudice, and needed the Stadtfelt name to hide behind! She had been born rich, yes, but that didn't—she wasn't playing a child's game!

Kallen could leave that house if she wanted, but she had no where else to go! That was all!

_ 'Why does he have the right to judge me?! I'm not being hypocritical—I'm doing what I need to!' _Besides, he was just as bad as her! Lelouch was enrolled in Ashford and had an elegant villa to himself once! _'Where does he get off!'_ What kind of pain had he experienced?! Nothing—he was just a seventeen year old kid playing hero for an audience he thought was stupid and relishing in the attention! _'A **narcissist**!'_

_'He's been pampered, too! So what!' _Kallen raced through the ghetto, fists trembling as her nails ripped into her skin. _'What do I owe him, anyway! He used me!_' She hung off his every word, took his speeches as absolute truth—what right did he have to lead her blindly! From the moment he took his place as leader she had respected him beyond all measures! Why would he criticize _her_ of anything—she was fiercely loyal, and she strove for his approval. Kallen Kouzuki was _dying_ for Zero whenever she sped through the battlefield like lightning—for Japan's miracle worker! He could at least give her something back!

Yet all he was these days was a sea of rage hiding behind the protection a doorway, always scoffing at their failures—who said he could take it out on them?! They made their best efforts, but succeeding was his responsibility. _'It isn't as though we can win without him! We've tried, it never works!' _They were only human—did not have his intelligence or his skill, and couldn't be expected to do anything more than what was necessary!

There was a sick feeling swirling in her gut, and Kallen sent energy buzzing into her legs—ran, fled from Britannia and its rose-colored world where flowers flooded their pretty boxes and everything was a veneer of superficial beauty to cloak a quiet ugliness. She crept the streets of the city until it faded to walls covered in graffiti and barbed wire fences with shoes hung from their webs of steel; watched as the lines of reality blurred.

Her legs were lead as she forced them to move, feeling heavy and full with a knowledge she had never wanted. Naoto was not going to know his free Japan; he died before it happened, before they had done anything worthy of accomplishment. He was Lelouch's shadow, the leader without a name who led a cell that no one gave thought to. She felt a suffocating disgust coil itself inside her brain, overwhelming as streetlights sent lines of white streaking the concrete and asphalt—why was his memory suddenly just that: a memory! Naoto was a name in a roster abandoned to gather dust somewhere! The recruits had no idea of his sacrifice—they treated him like a failure who paled against Zero's limelight, and claimed he was worth replacing! He _died_ for his revolution!

_'Damn it!' _Ohgi's door was a beacon as she climbed the steps to the shell of a building sagging on its street corner. Must clung to it like disease, perpetual and constant, while the white walls of the apartment hissed of old pipes and clamoring air ducts. Her fingers hung above the doorknob before she wrenched it open and eased inside, eyes adjusting to the film of murky fluorescent light. He'd have a damned Brit in there, so why not her—_she_ had no need to ask for his permission!

Hesitating, Kallen left her shoes on the mat before meandering inside, "Hey, Ohgi! I'm coming in—you here?"

Her answer was a brief spell of silence as she took in the familiarity of his furniture—cheap, but in good taste for a guy doomed to live alone. It was clumsily well-kept, with coats strewn across the ragged couch as it sat against its wall, and papers decorating the coffee table. Order business, judging from the hasty chicken scrawl rippling across their faces. Zero was a man who spoke for the sake of never having to commit in writing, partially because it was politically detrimental and partially because his calligraphy was something_ far_ beyond awful.

"Kallen?" She managed a weak grin and he stepped out from his kitchen before tossing away a dishcloth,"What's the matter?"

Feeling heat flare in her cheeks, she didn't want to tell him she was tossed out and left to wander the boulevard for the past hour or so, "What. I felt like stopping by, that's all."

"Well," he said easily before ducking back behind the door frame, "If you want to, I won't stop you."

She collapsed into the couch as he took care of his chores—cooked, cleaned, lived alone. She had never done those things; always her mother while she stared and gave orders, thinking she deserved to sweep the dirt from their feet for living as Britannia's dog. Hiding from her self-hate, she sneered a dry, "Hey, how's everything with the Order."

"Pretty good," sighing as she arched an eyebrow, Ohgi spluttered a jovial, "Haha, okay, I know that look . . . it's better than before, anyway. We've managed to hold some of the main roads, although Zero hasn't given us much to do. He's barricaded himself in his room; I talked to Miss C.C., who said he was researching."

She force fed a listless, "About what?"

"She said it was confidential."

"Oh," quiet fell over the two as she focused on the dirty cream of the shades, navy teasing at breaks in their plastic layering.

He grinned when he came to her side, beer in hand, "Hey, Kallen? You want one?"

". . . Why not," they drank quietly and he took a seat, bathed in blue light as pictures spun across the television; something on the news, Zero's face, a woman, Schneizel and Suzaku with his crutch hidden so the world couldn't see his faults. There was a delicate hatred that bubbled up, and she pushed it away, _far away_ as she sank into the plush of the cushions.

"Hey, do you remember that gorge?" It was spoken to stale air, syllables slow and practiced.

"Yeah," he affirmed, tugging apart the old memories lingering behind his eyes—behind _her_ eyes, "It was years ago, though."

"We used to all play together—you, Naoto, and me."

He laughed, bold as it rang hollow against the walls, "It was huge, and probably dangerous. I'm always surprised by how stupid we were back then!"

"And you guys were such . . . guys, too! Leaving me everywhere, because I was 'so irritating!' Ugh."

"Hey, don't worry, Kallen," Ohgi was tempted into a smirk, "You're still irritating now—"

Biting back a chuckle, she countered with a mocking, "Shut up! Like I need to take that from _you_."

"Hey, I wasn't that bad," he insisted breezily, waving a hand, "Kind of an idiot, but we _were_ kids. Naoto was a lot worse."

Watching cracks run the drywall like spider webs, she remembered how the crags dipped and curved before collapsing in on themselves, how evergreen spilled into the pathway as her mother's wind chime voice sang before dying in air. ". . . We've gotten a lot older."

It was simple and earnest as he shifted, "You're way too young to feel old."

"I don't know, but I feel like I'm a lot older," it took hold when she began to think about _now_ and _tomorrow_ and who she was when one woman was worth nothing in the scheme of things. She wondered if it was borne of the war, with all its seas of blood and gore, or perhaps the police officer who came to her father's parties and smiled with his daughter. Even Zero, with all his broken promises that he never made, but she took as truth all the same. Maybe especially Ze—Lelouch, and how he was a friend whose name was all he told her.

Kallen's voice was soft as she murmured, "I want to go back there someday, you know? Just to see if it's changed."

". . . I'm sure it's still around."

She watched the beer can wink under the bulb light, heat tugged from her fingertips as she felt the cold aluminum, ". . . If something makes you happy, it can't be all that bad, can it?"

"Depends on the thing," Ohgi finished quickly, taking a deep swing as he fiddled with the remote in his hands.

". . . Why do you think people take drugs, Ohgi?"

It left him dead silent before he strung together a careful, "Some don't know what they're getting into. Just think it's fun. Others aren't sure how to . . . deal, or get control of their life, and drugs offer a solace from that."

"Control?" Kallen repeated and knitted her brows in concentration. There was thunderous silence as cold climbed up the back of her neck and she thought of her mother—of her sunken eyes, empty in their sockets while she smiled at a life that ended long ago, and how the tanks cut into the countryside with smoke barreling up from their guns as August began to bloom. The classroom the students abandoned and the sky—it was vivid, a perfect robin egg blue while she bounded home on the balls of her feet and found her mother sobbing in the den. There, seven years after the blood ebbed into the earth, she could still trace the lines of the Prime Minster's sharp features as he spoke, hand cut by God in the stone that was his aged skin.

"People hate to be powerless—over their situation, over their lives. It's sad because, well, I don't think you can really control anything in the world. Things just happen, and it would be a lot easier if we just tried to keep ourselves in check."

". . . What should you blame," she finished dryly, forcing a languid turn of the head, "Is it the drug's fault, or the person taking it. . ."

"I think it's hard to say. It's not easy to leave behind an addiction."

She snapped back to attention, bolting upright, "But they could have chosen not to!"

"Well," he mumbled, voice jittery under a somber facade, "You should blame the distributors then."

". . ." Tense as she swallowed her frustration, Kallen drank it deep—drowned herself in alcohol, and relished the burn as it licked her throat.

Their silence sank into her bones before he growled a stiff, "It's not right to trap an entire nation in conformity just by using drugs and their depression."

"You're just repeating what Zero said!" The words were ripped out of her, shrill and vicious, "You shouldn't believe everything he tells you!"

Ohgi was gentle as he whispered a tired, "Kallen . . ."

"What if he's lying!" She spat it like acid, aware of a disgusting burn teasing at her eyes—tears, but she would never cry, not over _him_! Not over a man who would throw away a people's hope! "How would you know!"

Ohgi hesitated, and forced a slow, "I don't have any reason to doubt him, and he's right."

"But he could betray us anytime he likes—we give him too much sway!"

"If he wanted to betray us, he would have done it by now," it was matter-of-fact, Ohgi left unfazed by her screeches, "There's really no reason to work so hard if you're not committed to the cause."

"All he does is hide in the background and let us put ourselves on the line—and when we make mistakes, he gets pissed!" Kallen flung her arm out, ungraceful as she fought to keep her voice steady, "What the hell do we even know about him?! He doesn't care at all! What does he lose from this war? Nothing! He'll just go back to Britannia and play some other game!"

". . . I think he may be suffering, too, Kallen," Ohgi finished and glanced at the reports scattered across the floorboards, "It's hard to lead."

"Oh, sure," she snarled, crushing the beer can between her cupped hands, "What kind of leader abandons their men on the field!"

"You left us, too, even if if was an order . . ."

Shock flashed across her features, and she snapped her mouth closed before sneering a sullen, "Tch!"

"But, ha, I'll admit that I'm happy it's him instead of me up there . . ." He was composed, voice empty of emotion, "Naoto used to complain about it. How no one could follow orders, things never went as planned, how stupid everyone was. You haven't gotten a lot of opportunity to lead cells by yourself yet, so—"

"You're just saying that because you're afraid of leading anything."

"Ha . . ." Ohgi was uncomfortable, stirring in his seat before forcing his eyes elsewhere, "Well, maybe, but you've been just as angry lately—although he's more intimidating, being Zero and all. Is something wrong?"

"Why would something be wrong just because I'm angry?! I could be angry about a lot of things!"

Looking down at his own beer can, he heaved a sigh, "I think anger goes pretty much hand-in-hand with frustration."

"So!"

"It's not healthy to let everything weigh on you until it becomes too much. You have a lot on your shoulders, Kallen—more than most people ever will."

She ran nervous fingers through her hair and shifted weight from foot-to-foot, pacing the rug in an angry loop, "Since when did you have any experience with this kind of thing."

"I was a teacher," his answer was leisurely, "I might as well have a degree in dealing with hormonal kids."

"Ah," Kallen thundered as she shot a dangerous glare, "You're _clever_."

"I don't think it's helpful to avoid trusting people. You have to live with them so, it's easier just to say what you need to," Ohgi paused, gaze on the ceiling before he added a simple, "Zero is included in that. He's human too, and sometimes humans complain or yell about stupid things."

"How could you defend him!" It came out choked and trembling, a broken whisper, "Because of Zero, people have forgotten about Naoto!"

". . ." Ohgi was alarmed, but kept all his replies silent while Kallen's fists quaked at her hips.

"He tried! It isn't fair—he sacrificed himself for Japan, so why! Don't you hate them?! It isn't like he didn't care or was nothing compared to Zero! I—I really loved him! How can they just move on!?" She spun to face him, feeling vulnerable and alone as reality broke her open, "I hate how I go back to that house and they don't even care! That bitch and my stupid father—they think he deserved to die! No one deserves that—he was in pain because of what Britannia did _to_ Japan! He wasn't the cause, but he had to fight for it anyway!"

". . . But Kallen," it was fragile and earnest, "I think Naoto would be happy if he saw how much we've done."

". . ."

"It might sound strange," Ohgi murmured quietly, placing the empty can on the coffee table, "But he wanted you to live in a liberated Japan. You were part of the reason he created the cell at all—he didn't want you to grow up thinking people were worth killing. Naoto did it for freedom, for the sake of a future that couldn't exist with Britannia in power. So you could see that there was more than just what authority gave to you."

Her heart throbbed in her chest, and she snapped a cutting, "That doesn't make me feel better!"

"I know, but everyone will eventually die. There's nothing you can do. . . even if you wanted to. It's already in the past."

". . ."

"It's difficult to lose people," something in his voice cracked—spoke of a fresh, festering wound. Did he miss that Britannia woman, miss her _brother_, when she had believed no one else cared, "Because then you realize that they were important. Notice things like how you two met by chance, that they made you happy, that they were there at all, what you would have said or done differently. . ."

Kallen choked out a lukewarm, "Ohgi."

"Yeah?"

"I'm tired of talking about this. Is," her tongue slipped as she worked to pull the sentence together, "Is it okay if I just stay here for the night? I don't feel like going back. I'm sick of fighting with them all the time."

"You don't have to ask next time." She waved him from the couch and buried herself in its waves of stuffing as he tossed her a blanket, callous and heavy in her hands while she struggled to wrap it around her body—enclose herself in its protection, in the quiet peace of his apartment as he shuffled paper somewhere to her right. It would be hours before morning crept into Shinjuku's ghetto, the sun ducking behind clouds as rain shuddered on the windowpane. Face down and despising the sounds tearing at her ears, she watched the shadows slithering across the floorboards before groggily shaking off the exhaustion clinging to her aching muscles.

"Morning, Ohgi," it was painfully indifferent despite that she'd wasted hours thinking of how she would apologize, ". . . I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"It's okay," he was cheerful as he scurried the length of his apartment, darting from corner to crevice before he headed to work, "I'm just glad you're in a better mood today."

She crossed her arms in a caricature of nonchalant and managed an aloof, "Do you mind if I told you one more thing."

He shrugged, "What?"

"Is it," she cringed at the sick feeling in her gut as she wrestled with the question tugging at her lips, "wrong if I hate my mother for being so weak sometimes?"

". . . What happened?"

"It's just . . . difficult to go there and have her never remember me," she would visit and force a smile while her mother's stare passed through her, little more than a ghost in the woman's world of make-believe, "Because she chose Refrain . . . she just seems irresponsible, but it doesn't feel fair to her."

"I don't believe you're doing anything inhuman, Kallen," his statement eased her mind, but it was short-lived as she remembered the guilt she'd carried for months, "Sometimes people get sick of each other."

"Could I—could I come here and live with you?"

"Kallen, I don't know—your father might—"

She hissed a cynical, "They don't care about me anyway."

". . ."

"I won't be a burden!" It was insistent, and Kallen was careful not the resent the desperate honesty in her voice, "But I don't want to rely on them. I want to do things myself, or I'm always going to feel like . . . Besides, I'd rather stay with you."

"Well," he mumbled awkwardly, reluctant to give her any absolutes, "I'll have to think about it. Why though?"

"What you said," it was begrudging as she clutched her—no, _his_ headband, and felt the brush of its smooth silk between her fingers, "Maybe Zero. . . can be right about some things. I guess."

* * *

_AN:_ . . . I'm sorry no one else got the chance to shine this time around. Also, I don't think I've ever written such a long conversation. Oo; (And yes, I do realize no one cares.)


	7. A Black Sheep, a black mask

**Title:** And in blood

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_AN:_ Special thanks goes out to **Blackrose**! (Just keep reviewing, and all is forgiven. Because I am an egotist.) Also,** Seriyuu **is in dire need of some recognition. Thank you very much! (And sorry I'm so lazy about these types of things.)

As for this chapter, easy summary: "in which Milly gets some deserved screen time, and I develop Kallen some more. And Lelouch is _involved_." And oh god, is it** long**. Oo; I'm sorry about that—it just kind of happened . . . Also: some one-sided LelouchXMilly. :3 On an even weirder note, **we're in November in my story**, too.

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Milly Ashford danced the streets of Tokyo, shrugging away a halo of wheat gold as she felt the cellphone press like a weight against her hips. Nothing in her would have thought that Lelouch was attracted to all the danger of a terrorist, yet alone that he had the staying power of a leader. Keeping careful control of her smile, she remembered that Lelouch had always been reserved—haunted the school grounds rather than made friends, keeping primarily within his boundaries and associating only with those he couldn't escape. That was his way, and it had fascinated her when she was a girl: the young, exiled prince of Britannia with his easy-good looks and sharp eyes, standing so silent. Such gallantry, such mystery behind that empty stare! A regular Casanova of their era.

That had been childhood fantasy—Lelouch was no paramour destined to climb the rose vines to her balcony and sweep her from an unwanted marriage. He was not hiding some secret romantic; it was beyond his practical reality where Nunally needed her laundry done and all his affairs were with his budget. Milly had made the mistake of seeing the Prince, in all his black velvet elegance and good breeding, and not the brother who survived Japan's war. She learned—came back sadder and wiser, but she _learned_.

Lelouch had long ago stopped believing in humanity. He liked the student council, but it was a distant fondness. They knew him as Lelouch Lamperouge, the son of an estranged cousin who inherited none of the fame that his namesake carried, but could pilot. Who lost all his claims to the family when the Empress bled across the tile; failed them in death. She wondered what he thought now of all their lies—that they kept him as a prisoner, and pretended his mother's nonsense resulted in his alienation when he'd watched her die in the midday sun. Of Ashford's petty resentment of a woman in a coffin, and the greed that led to turning an orphan into a trump card.

"The Goddess of the People will never die! Marianne lives forever!" But everyone dies, and she realized that at ten when her uncle contracted lung cancer from all those Arturo Fuente cigars. Lady Lamperouge was their Hild, a Valkyrie overlooking the fray before she took her Emperor's side. She tore through enemies, an Angel of Death draped in the finest white. Marianne was the champion of the Britannia Empire—she was cunning, she was beautiful, she was powerful, and she left her mark in blood. The country called her invulnerable, marveled at her prowess and charisma, and some part of Milly mused that they must have_ truly_ believed it. Believed that Marianne Lamperouge was immortal.

Their faith would break when bullets ripped through the windows of the palace. Lady Lamperouge was another woman, and she was _dead_; the Ashfords were not invincible, and didn't have the protection of the Empress. His Majesty glared as he stole their title from them, and hissed a dark, "I will have nothing to do with the fallen legacies of Marianne vi Britannia." She knew, because her great grandmother repeated it with a vehemence she could never forget—said she hoped the woman burned in hell. Milly was eleven then, and had never known anything but praise of the fatherland, of the Empress and her Emperor, but there it was. And for _dying_, something Marianne vi Britannia could never have controlled.

She would tell herself that she knew him—understood Lelouch and his silence. That was a lie; there had always been a lingering doubt, a suspicion that he was furious somewhere beneath his indifferent grin. And he had been so _very angry_, terrible in his rage—the way it surged and growled, caged until it could run free. Lived long after Japan no longer wept blood in the name of the innocent strewn across her countryside.

_". . . I want them to __**remember**__ the name Lelouch vi Britannia as they 'burn in hell.'" _She shuddered when he murmured it, and hid from the idea that he _heard_. Days would pass and he would say nothing, too prideful and too broken to acknowledge that he had to rely on them. Milly would watch a child with his fingers pressed to a wall of window glass, silent as death while the world decayed behind his eyes, and creep to his side out of a morbid curiosity to meet the Prince.

The Prince wasn't real. She had been alone in that room, and she knew that now. Milly grew into a woman while he was still a boy, always trapped in his wars, always hearing screams rip from every corner of Japan when they died on deaf ears to her.

Guilty of being force fed decades of Britannia's racism, Milly had difficultly valuing the plight of the Elevens. Her parents had echoed their superiors—told her that there was no importance to their existence, and that they were "helping" them civilize for the sake of menial labor. Yet she had been a child, and children believe foolish things. She'd felt vindicated all those years ago, when they were still young and she liked having a new mansion while Elevens trekked to their ghettos and handed over their belongings to be melted down and made into the payment that the government gave to the soldiers that tore through their countryside.

She could remember all her elated grins and how Lelouch came on a sunny Tuesday as summer heat pressed down on the world, and carefully helped Nunally into her wheelchair. His fingers were tense and precise as he weaved them with her own, and he refused to let anyone touch her—touch _him_ as he locked the two of them in their room. Milly could still recall how he looked in the halls of his villa; regal, dressed in gold lace and white silk, and timid whenever her mother went to mingle in the court. He was filthy that morning—different, with a glare, and robbed of all the glamor of Britannian royalty. She'd chased him down a week afterward, when he was without blood stains on his button-up or dirt on his cheeks, and met Lelouch Lamperouge for the first time.

He'd changed—Lelouch vi Britannia was always a serious child, but, well, he'd _changed_. There was nothing else to describe that angry silence. He was articulate, clearly convinced of his own superiority, argumentative, and dedicated to human equality. The boy in the villa was soft-spoken, reserved, and curious about the world while he clung to safety of the royal family. The boy in the villa wasn't there.

Lelouch told her to leave, stoic and dangerous, but Milly prided herself on being nosy even now—they'd won the war, why did it matter? Their empire would be compensated for their loses, so what was the problem?

When she'd asked, he'd snarled a vicious, "Don't assume that I am anything like you!" He then twirled on his heel and marched into the hall, Milly left to stare before stringing together a screech of, "You're really cold!" And it was true. She coaxed him for months at her parent's behest, and there was a growing frustration—_'So spoiled! He's_ _being this abrasive when __**my**__ family has to pay for him!'_ She fought him tooth and nail for his acceptance, but he came to her on his own with a stale, "I'll take your offer. Nunally needs someone her own age to play with." Milly hadn't thought him bitter then—simply infuriating and self-absorbed. And he was, maybe more than a little, but there was something so _utterly_ unique about Lelouch Lamperouge and it was impossible to let be.

It came to her when she was older, a heavy knowledge that weighed on her soul, as she saw him wander from class to class. He must have been very lonely, always pretending to be something he wasn't. Lelouch was a well of secrets—his feelings, his past made to suit their needs while anything real was trapped in his mind. Milly was welcomed into his world slowly, and she watched as he struggled to adapt to their Britannian lifestyle: refused to sing the national anthem outside of school hours, devoted his entire life to caring for a younger sister that couldn't walk or see. He came to smile at her antics, sometimes genuinely if she was attentive, and forget that she was an Ashford. Yet Milly was foolish, youthful, condemned to the cage that was arranged marriage, and she _loved_ him. She was thirteen and curious and he was no boy, far too mature to be a peer—had a sharp jaw and those quiet, intense eyes burning behind a mane of midnight black. Had his own _mind_.

He broke the walls of her small world where the future was a piece composed, played, and told before she was born. _"__I have no particular fondness for marriage, nor do I see much honor in selling off a fourteen year old girl,"_ he'd said as the Ferris wheel spun to the zenith of its revolution, tittering below a spring sky painted in bursts of white and blue,_"You should have more choice than you've been given." _Feeling the blush spread through her cheeks, Milly came to wait for him to confess to a romance that never was. Her's was a lifetime of childhood illusions, adolescent hope, and then adult wisdom; there would be no fairytale ending for Milly Ashford, no promises of Knights or Princes or rose petals sent whispering across the bedsheets. Having been told to do nothing but find a good husband since she was old enough to walk, Milly had learned to stand there with a fake smile, and she was too afraid to let go of her family's ambitions and spread her broken, clipped wings. Dreams die, and reality is a paradox that will always eventually change to something new. By fifteen, Lelouch had his fire snuffed by pessimism, and she was terrified to think of the future as something open-ended.

The night creature lurking under his skin had fooled her. He'd warped into apathy and false relationships—began to gamble for the thrill of resistance, smile Cheshire grins that had no meaning or life behind them. He took an interest in Rivalz who had always disregarded the rules in favor of money; he resented the upper class and their mansions and in-ground pools in a way that didn't echo Lelouch's, but allowed for him to amuse himself all the same.

He choked down his rage, and replaced it with indifference—no longer refused to praise Britannia and did not rebel against her father's orders. Simply accepted, because that was what the world's sheep did. Milly believed, _hoped _he had finally moved on. She had wanted him to be happy; invited him to parties, forced him into others company so he could see them as more than enemies.

There was something horribly sad about the way the world broke him, and she wanted to believe he could smile without being weighed with all his depression. That had been a mistake. She may have been deluded, but she _wanted_ to think he had finally escaped all that cruelty he'd seen. Looking back, it was more accurate to say he felt nothing, and perhaps 'Zero' was destiny in the worst possible way._ 'But,' _Milly thought quietly, watching the people as they rushed to their lives without ever noticing her, _'Britannia has to fall. That's how it has to be.'_

She returned to her sly, shallow shell of a mask as Shirley kept in step with Suzaku, "Are you sure you're okay with coming with us?"

He was finally off his crutches, and looked a little more free on both feet, "It's fine."

"Well," she said cautiously, a hint of distress below her smile, "As long as _you're_ feeling better! You really haven't gone out much since . . ." It trailed off, and Milly assumed she was alluding to the death threats Prince Schneizel had joked he had the absolute pleasure of receiving.

"Yes, but," he hesitated, pulling the words together, "Um, some people haven't been too happy with his Highness's associating with me. I thought it would be better to stay out of the public's eye."

"It's kind of amazing," her reply was uneasy, and she was quick to explain when he frowned, "How many people know you, I mean! You're famous . . . It's scary."

Suzaku murmured a fragile, "The trial itself scares me more than that . . ."

"Oh, think of all the publicity Ashford is getting, though!" Milly gushed cheerfully, twirling on her heel to face them, "Grandfather is very pleased!"

"But he could get hurt if they aren't careful!" Shirley was desperate and exasperated before he managed a weak sort of smile.

"I don't mind."

"But . . ." She spluttered, cheeks flushing rosy pink, "The threat, though. . ."

"The people are resisting because," it came out low and dry, Milly left to arch an eyebrow, "Zero has been inactive. If he hadn't led the rebellion, no one would be getting hurt."

She touched a finger to her chin, and sang a fickle, "The Emperor's Sun isn't affiliated with the order, is it . . . ?"

"No," Shirley's words were jumbled, tumbling from her mouth in a stream, "I mean, interrupting a trial backed by His Highness! That's difficult to do! I'm pretty sure Zero wouldn't want to, um, hurt his Order by giving that kind of threat, so . . ."

"He's arrogant," Suzaku was cold as death, and Shirley went tense as she took in the stony indifference he was hiding behind.

"Oh! Look, puppies!" She dropped to her knees and reached out a hand, the owner—a tall woman, thin as a stick with a quiet demeanor and blonde brushing her shoulders—left to smile, "Um, what are their names?" They chattered, abandoning Zero, war, and reality, while Shirley brushed the fur of both Beagles before breaking into a brilliant grin.

"I like dogs, but Arthur doesn't," Suzaku said offhandedly, watching as Shirley sprang upright, "I was thinking about getting one, but I didn't have the money to care for it, and I live in the dorms . . . "

"Oh?" Milly let her voice run like syrup, "You really love Arthur, hmm?"

"Yeah," he added before tacking on a lighthearted, "But I guess he doesn't really like me, though!"

"Ah! Is that it, but," Milly threw out an arm in a display of theatrics, a teasing smirk threading across her lips, "_What _if I gave him to you?"

"I," Suzaku worked to recover from shock, barely managing a flustered, "I can't ask you to do that, he's important to the entirety of the council, and—"

"Well, he already lives with you, and you do feed him," she beamed before waving a hand,"And it isn't as though he'd be leaving the grounds. Yes, I think this is perfect! The student council room can't smell like litter box forever, can it?"

"Ah, but I—"

"Oh, how offensive, that he would reject my offer!" It was melodramatic, a parody of 'pained' as he shrank from her criticism, "I'm _so_ hurt—"

"Milly!" Shirley's hands were on her hips and she wore a comical scowl, Milly swallowing the laughter bubbling up, "That's unfair! If he doesn't want to take Arthur, he doesn't have to—"

"I, well," he stuttered, tripping over his tongue, "I didn't necessarily say that, either . . ."

"Then it's settled!" She chirped, throwing an fist into the air before draping her arms around Shirley's shoulders, "He's no longer a homeless kitty-cat."

Heaving a sigh, she pulled free of her grip and whispered an impatient, ". . . Our president is so weird."

". . . Hey, Shirley," Milly bounded off while Suzaku spoke, tugging the cellphone free as Lelouch's new number glistened on the screen, "Would you mind staying with me for a while?"

- - -

She forced a cautious, "What do you even do when you go home—"

"Ridiculous," Kallen winced as he turned those frigid eyes on her, his voice empty, "That is of no relevance." Zero's mask winked beneath the bulb light, ink black against ghost-pale fingers as he dangled it from his armrest. She let her gaze flit back to him, and her stomach turned as she tried to ignore that this was the first time he had ever let her see, well, _Lelouch_ under its plastic layers.

C.C. curiously examined her nails and muttered a dry, ". . . So many complaints."

". . Ze," The name died on her tongue as Kallen remembered that this was Lelouch she was trying to talk to, "Uh, is Nunally okay?"

His fingers tensed on the report, but he said nothing. Feeling the thunderous quiet weigh on her, pull the air from her lungs, she offered a pitiful, "I didn't get a chance to see her, so . . ."

"Tch," he sneered and worked to hide his grimace as he shifted weight from from his injured right side, and a frantic part of her wondered if she'd offended him—it would suck to work overtime because she pissed the boss off, and, since the Rebellion, he spat fire on his _better days_. It wasn't as though she'd forgotten about her kidnapping, but so much had happened, and there wasn't time to spend chasing after Lelouch once he slipped away from Ashford.

". . . Sor—" It was hushed, and she snapped to silence as he cut her short.

"I don't believe she'd be adverse to your visits, Kallen," Ze—Lelouch was somber before he began again with a tentative, maybe even distressed if she was hearing it right, "She has been . . . however, it is of the utmost importance that you treat me as an equal; as a student. Furthermore, it goes without saying that if I trust you with this, you must not forget that all our activities are withheld from the Order."

"Could I," she lingered, feeling far too awkward and polite, "come tonight, then? I'm not busy . . ."

"If it's for Nunally," he said coolly, folding his hands, "Although I admit that I dislike . . . unexpected company for Sayoko's sake. Even so, it should remove some of her anxieties regarding the safety of the student council, as well as give her a friendly face to turn to."

"Well," C.C. was incredulous, wide-eyed as she tugged a plate of pizza to her side, "Look at all those instructions. He sounds disturbingly _normal_, how surprising. Even happy."

". . ." Kallen kept dutifully silent as he tore his gaze from the two of them and rumbled a cynical, "I don't appreciate your assumptions."

"Uh—'normal'?" It was whispered, C.C. gracing her with a bored turn of the head while he rushed to his feet and fingered through the papers scattered neatly on his desk.

Her answer was deadpan, "Yes. For him."

"What are the two of you whispering about?!" Kallen's back went straight, her posture stiff as she stood before remembering that he _wasn't_ giving an order, "I'm certain I can hear anything wort—"

"—You," C.C. took a leisurely bite as he glared her way, and then ushered them into the hall. In a haze of sympathy and frustration, Kallen watched hopelessly as the door shut and became a wall between the three of them.

". . . He really is angry. It's weird," it was a strange, sick sensation as she thought that the Order might be failing—clinging and weighty, as well as too familiar these days, "Lel—er, Zero. . . angry."

_'I . . . feel a little foolish. . .' _Months before she would have assumed he was all black-velvet smoothness and laughed that Japan's Zero was above blunders. Now, he was at the mercy of hearsay—of his own men, of hypocrites who promised their loyalty—and had to build himself up from scratch. Lelouch hit the bottom of the bottle, and the fall must have hurt like hell.

She had never—she had never thought of Zero like this. Seen him when he was limited, without the protection of miracles and striving to piece together the remnants.

"Why are you here, Kallen?" C.C. spun on her heel and marched ahead, "Finally come to see his charms? Unfortunately, there aren't many of them like_ that_."

"No!" She barked, trailing after her until they fell in-step, "I . . . want to know why he joined this war—_our_ war."

"Hmm," the reply came slowly, and C.C. licked the grease from her fingertips.

"Ugh," Kallen sneered, a disgusted look crossing her face, "How can you eat that crap all the time—"

"For the same reason you don't."

She struggled with the meaning, and then muttered a dry, "That doesn't make sense."

"I don't believe he'll tell you," C.C. easily slipped down the stairs, quick-footed and agile as Kallen chased after her, "He's the secretive kind."

"That isn't important to me," the words were serious, a quiet determination playing below them, "I need to know he won't betray us. Something like _that_, like the SAZ can't happen again. There's no other way."

"You won't let it be so?" She managed, detached and without any real interest, "A foolish sentiment, but I suppose it's natural to be concerned."

She made efforts to swallow down her fierce, "You aren't?!"

"Accidents happen."

"An accident?!" She breathed darkly, throwing an arm out in demonstration.

C.C. nodded as the sun seeped between the gaps in the brick walls, "An accident. His Geass . . . went beyond control, which resulted in that."

"What does he do," it was a growl, dangerous and low.

She muttered a stiff, "Controls others."

Nothing came, Kallen battling with her common sense—that he could actually control others, it was goddamn _impossible_, wasn't it, "How? Damn it, how does the Geass work, even?!"

"I don't know," she shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, and there was a surge of doubt somewhere in Kallen's skull, "It's different for everyone."

"Why did he have her kill the Japanese?! What could he have done that ended up like that?!"

". . ." C.C.'s eyes were downcast, and she turned away, "Ask him, not me."

Apprehension plucked at her heartstrings as they waited for him to glide down to meet them, and Kallen fidgeted with the fraying threads of her school uniform. She stole a curious glance as C.C., who answered it with an empty silence before Lelouch pulled out of the shadow, Zero's—_his_ blacks and purples glistening in the twilight. C.C. eased into the front seat and motioned for him to head to the back, and Kallen turned on her heel to follow him.

"I didn't mean you. He changes in there. You can stay out here, if you like," her lips stretched into a smirk, "But, then again, perhaps you—"

Kallen's cheeks flared and she tumbled into the passenger's seat while a black window crept up and left him as a shadow behind its tinted glass, "Why didn't you say anything earlier—?!"

"I didn't think you would care."

She spluttered a terse, "I _don't_—but he is Zero, and all—"

It came, heavy and low, "Drive, C.C." Her hands flowed to the wheel, and, with a shaky grumble of life from the bowels of its engine, they were suddenly rumbling up the boulevard—barreling past the corpses of buildings torn apart by the Rebellion until they met an empty Japanese countryside. They drowned in uncomfortable silence, Kallen left to watch the horizon change from cookie cutter houses to fields as the sun dipped under the horizon and the moon slithered past the hills.

Stretching against leather upholstery, she hissed a restless, "What the hell does he come this far out for?!"

"I did suggest he work at home."

". . ." Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she turned her headband over in her hands and pocketed it, tugging her brush free. She ran it through her hair, exhausted at the messy crimping left behind and the loose strands clinging to her cheek. The Guren didn't have plugs for a woman's straightener, after all. Eyeing the villa sliding into view—carefully well-kept with flowers bursting between breaks in the iron fence, and Ashford's insignia rippling up the front of the gate— Kallen shifted as they rolled over the gravel that was the driveway. She was eager to walk off the stress, and stepped lightly into the night air before C.C. crept to meet her.

Lelouch tugged out his briefcase, a large steel thing—_Oh God_, Kallen noted in an ethereal way, she'd seen it _before_—and motioned that they go ahead. She happily abandoned him and strode up the stairs to the deck, hesitating at the doorbell until C.C. fumbled with a key and thrust it open.

"Kallen, she doesn't remember the details of her kidnapping. Please keep that . . . quiet," feeling a nervous tension latch on, she let him pass her and shuddered at his, "Nunally, I have a surprise for you."

"Um," she was careful to keep her voice weak and feign illness, "Hi there."

"Oh, Kallen!" There was an overwhelming guilt as Nunally flashed a cheerful smile, "I'm so happy to see you!"

"I feel the same . . ."

C.C. plucked a paper crane from its brothers and sisters laid out on the table, and Nunally warmly handed her a collection of stationary before exclaiming a timid, "I've heard a lot from brother about how everyone is doing, although I'm a bit sad that we haven't been able to see each other . . ."

"Yeah . . ." Kallen murmured, keeping her eyes on her as Lelouch chuckled, low and barely above a whisper.

"And brother is happy to see you, too. How are Rivalz and Shirley? Milly told me that they've been working to repair Ashford in our absence. And Suzaku, is he okay? I—I'm a bit worried, he's at school all by himself, and . . . and a lot has happened, so . . ."

She had to choke out a lie, and managed a simple, "They're all right. Shirley's a bit more concerned than Rivalz . . . he's a little reckless sometimes . . ."

"And Suzaku?" It fed to a burning anger in her, and she wrestled with the urge to sneer.

"I," she looked desperately to a severe Lelouch for help, but he was busy fondling the case's handle, "I think he's, um, fine . . . maybe distressed occasionally . . . "

Nunally fell to a heart-wrenching silence until she broke into a jovial, "Brother hardly has company! This is so nice, we should let Miss Shinozaki know you're well—"

Kallen struggled to keep her mask on for hours as Nunally rambled, always wearing that controlled, breezy smile. She shifted, watching as the hands spun the face of the clock, and her thoughts strayed—Lelouch must have made a habit out of pretending he wasn't Zero, that he didn't lead the Black Knights. Lied constantly, without even thinking. Kallen forced a grin as she folded cranes with clumsy hands and realized that a hidden part of her might be able to understand that.

Once Nunally was tucked in her bed and midnight cast a shadow over the world, he declared a stoic, "Kallen. . . and C.C.." The latter was cold and Kallen glanced between the two of them, breaking under the angry silence that hung like a curtain. She had always assumed that they got along well—worked in near perfect sync, but _this_, there was something intense and furious and heated. "If you will. I think your opinions may be useful."

C.C. gave him a skeptical grimace and then dutifully followed into the drawing room, Kallen left to trail her before sliding into an armchair. A glass in hand, Lelouch sank into the couch and she swallowed her surprise—Zero _never_ ate, never drank when they tossed out alcohol after a victory._ 'Maybe . . ._' Kallen mused to herself, remembering the instances he'd snaked into the night when the Black Knights ushered him to their parties, '_Maybe he wanted to get back to Nunally before she went to sleep . . .'_ It was odd how much she didn't know of him, and she felt no desire to piece together the mosaic that was Lelouch Lamperouge. Or Zero. Or whoever.

"This is strange," C.C. dropped into the loveseat and stretched out like a cat, "You don't hold meetings."

"The vast majority of my subordinates are incompetent."

"Funny. The majority of humanity is incompetent," C.C. retorted slyly, and he tore through the pages of a magazine before leaving it open on the coffee table.

He was as passionate as a businessman, his words somber and candid,"I intend to stop distribution of this article, partially because it would become a detriment to the people if Zero is publicly slandered within the ghettos—"

"Uh," Kallen began anxiously, and he managed a languid turn of the head, "I . . ."

"Yes?"

"We should be directing resources to the refugees outside of Shinjuku; our actions led to the flood," she regained her confidence when he made no effort to wave her off, "And—and, even though we've managed to keep our hold on rations from Britannia, there hasn't been sufficient medical attention."

He paused, massaging his temples, "It is a frustrating matter. The Knights are not equipped with a regular medical unit that's geared towards a demographic of this size. . ."

"But remember that we can't allow for Britannian assistance," C.C.'s response was dry, "That might cause a defect to them given the circumstances."

"The Japanese are shaken by Britannia's apathy, and the race riots . . . I doubt they will have any interest in spreading their military thin in the ghettos, let alone their paramedics," Lelouch drifted back to quiet, and then declared a humorless, "Any deserters will be at the mercy of a frighted public. I assume they can barely manage economically unless working on an assembly line with a Britannia brand name."

"I can't stand Britannia. Watch the police sit back and laugh," Kallen snarled, fingers tense on the armrest, "Assholes."

"Seconded," Lelouch leaned forward, his fingers steepled, "We can do nothing more than continue to move out civilians to more stable locations with medical facilities readily available. Some back our cause, and will take them in."

"But they still want payment! We can't afford the price they're asking for!"

"Then, as I have explained to Tamaki, we will draw from our martial funds," he observed as she sagged into the cushions, and Kallen heaved a sigh as she thought of the refugees, "As of now, we are not prepared to face the standing Britannian army—we only had such success during the Rebellion because the forces were unorganized and without proper leadership. Further fighting in the prefecture would be pointless and simply add to the injured."

". . . That Schneizel seems to be a hindrance . . ." C.C. mumbled into the pillows hugged to her chest, "Sending help to the Japanese, cycling out the Purists' seats . . ."

"His intervention in the court is . . . difficult to approach. I can't interrupt it without drawing unnecessary attention or causing civilian fatalities, and he has thus far avoided exposing himself openly."

"Suzaku, tch," Kallen was begrudging as she remembered all his two-faced claims, "Why does he even ally with Britannians?!"

"He thinks it will somehow . . . change the social order," Lelouch's answer gave her no solace, "However, that cannot happen outside of dreams of the SAZ."

"Dreams?" She echoed harshly, arching an eyebrow.

He said nothing, and then finished with an aloof, "It will never be successfully established. That is . . . purely blind idealism, and there is no point in clinging to it."

". . . The massacre, huh," Kallen spoke to the air, and cold curled around her body.

"When put mildly," Lelouch affirmed, "Britannia has created a world without law, which is precisely why his way is impossible. There is no incentive to practice humanitarianism when you are a Social Darwinist; no benefits to altruism or honesty, because your situation cannot change."

"And?" C.C. was offhand as she examined her sharp, bone-thin hands.

"Law is useless without punitive measure. Therefore, it is essential that we punish the felons to create a demand for integrity; such is little more than human economics. Control is not a superficial impetus, it is simply a difference in methodology," his voice died before he added a final, "Britannia does not have an effective executive branch, nor are its priorities for the greater population. It punishes scapegoats rather than the violations of its own laws, and adapts to meet the needs of its officials."

"Devious, devious. So the reward is not being whipped for bad behavior? You're amusing, because you are always creating your own rules . . . "

"So what," Kallen shot viciously, wrenching her gaze from him, "He's a traitor—he sold himself out to the Empire. We don't need to be forgiving of that! We're the Black Knights. We're _Japanese_."

"I do not believe he's particularly foolish nor that he is apathetic towards Japan's future," it was cutting and stood as a warning, "He is . . . misguided, and that's the end of it."

C.C. mused a gentle, "Isn't that a nice way of excusing everything up until now . . ."

"He killed our comrades on the battlefield!" Suzaku had been cocky enough to threaten _her _after all his safe-guarding of her 'reputation,' damn it! "We can't just let that go, think of the—"

"When we establish the U.S.J., will we allow for the mass slaughter of Britannian citizens and workforce? I doubt it, Kallen. Imagine our classmates, and the economic consequences of such disregard."

"Tch!"

Lelouch continued, indifferent to her complaints, "That would dilute the trust in our Empire among the U.F.N., and we will be stretched thin even _without_ added tension. More so, he carries a large support in the general public."

"Then if we took him out, it would be a blow to their hope!"

"That is in worst case scenario," Lelouch was deathly calm, "I see no need to be extreme."

She managed a desperate, "But _you _said that trial—"

"Suzaku is not the more pertinent issue; on his own, he lacks the necessary political diplomacy to have any significant weight. It's not one of his talents . . . Schneizel, however . . ."

C.C. inserted a whimsical, "Another man for the reaper . . ."

". . ."

"I don't care," Kallen stated dryly, crossing her arms, "He's just another Britannian sycophant. Suzaku too, only worse because he's _useless_. At least Schneizel has some tact."

Lelouch was quick to stand upright, and forced a caustic, "Schneizel most certainly has tact, but he's much crueler." She stared as he slipped into the hallways and muttered something about getting papers he left behind in the den.

". . . It must be a hassle," C.C. broke the silence, and Kallen spun to look at her, "To always see his face everywhere, be reminded that he left his friends . . . It seems he's adopted you."

"What's that supposed to—"

C.C. gave her a blank look, her stare burying into her, and deadpanned a, "I feel bad for your fantasies."

Shocked into action, Kallen spluttered an undignified, "Be quiet!"

- - -

". . . Shirley," Suzaku struggled to keep control of his voice—she was a victim, and tampered to the point she was deluded about the nature of her father's death, their student council, her _entire life_, "What do you think of Zero?" It was repulsive that she couldn't _remember _when she deserved to have all the freedom the Geass stole from her. There was no excuse for warping her mind, for forcing his will on another.

_'Lelouch,'_ he thought darkly, hiding from the buzz in his skull, _'What the hell did you __**do **__that led to__. . .' _

"Of Zero?" The words spilled from her mouth, nervous and uncertain, "Why?"

He managed a weak, "Do you agree with his methods?"

Shirley was hesitant as she trailed behind him, the sunset carving gashes of bloody red and warm orange across the city skyline, ". . . Not completely, but . . . "

Suzaku strung together a solemn, "You lost someone you loved, and he—your father wasn't involved, just a foot soldier caught in the crossfire."

"Maybe . . ." She chewed on her upper lip and fell quiet as he choked down two months worth of raw emotion. He spent weeks pretending, _hoping_ that Lelouch was a memory he could wrestle to silence. Trying to _forget_ him. The wound was fresh, and he felt nervous tearing at the sutures, but it was for her sake! He soothed himself with, "Shirley should have a choice, she should at least_ know_."

Life was not so simple, and he was plagued by whispers of, "could I honestly tell her that Lelouch, who she'd _loved_, used her and threw her away." Would it change anything, or would she assume he was insane? There was no records, and no evidence that—that _thing_ even existed, and only a fool would think she was willing to stab him to prove a point. Yet alone watch him do it himself. Cold slid down his shoulders as an autumn breeze tore through him, and Suzaku accepted that he might _never_ be able to break her like that. He could be silent, he'd learned that after his father's death—sharpened it into an art of his own. As long as he knew if that was Lelouch's doing, and not, not another user, then he could run from Shirley until there was something he could prove. Maybe if he waited, let things stay quiet, he wouldn't ever have to and she could stay in a rose-colored world where Lelouch wasn't a madman waiting to seize the entire world.

Suzaku understood that he was carrying this secret alone, and it was a heavy weight as he forced a harsh, "He's harmed many people—civilians, taken others hostage, manipulated the government and used public areas to further his own ends despite that the populace could be harmed."

Brow furrowed, she clutched the handbag to her waist and let her eyes roam across the dirt of Ashford's pathways, ". . ."

"I—I guess it doesn't matter," her discomfort stung him, and he hid behind a false smile, "Um, hey. Why were you and Lelouch always fighting before?"

"We weren't really fighting . . ."

"Do you remember that swimming competition?" Suzaku grinned, open and honest, "We all went together—you, Lelouch . . . heh, the entire student council."

"I don't really . . ." It was grim, and some part of him flinched in pain.

He felt sick with himself, but pieced together an airy, "I have pictures—do you want to see?"

"Sure . . ." Suzaku waved a hand for her to follow and they climbed for the boys dorm, the moon settling in as navy was draped over the artificial light of the settlement. He lingered outside of his doorway, easing the key into the lock while a restless Shirley waited at his side.

"Uh, Shirley," he murmured as he tugged it ajar, "Sorry, I had to take you here."

"It doesn't matter," side-stepping, she pulled inside and dropped her bags, "I've come before."

"You don't live in the dorms do you—" Suzaku dwindled to silence as Arthur clung to his ankle in a display of fierce teeth and black fur, hissing furiously before abandoning him in favor of Shirley's outstretched hand.

She chuckled and broke into a grin, "I bet he does that on purpose!"

He nodded, preoccupied as he forced it shut and wandered to the closet. His photo album had been one of the few items he kept intact after the SAZ, and he paused as it glared down at him from its perch on the shelf. Handing it to her, Shirley fingered the pages and took in the faces smiling from their organized boxes, "Are—are all these of us? Of me?"

"Yes."

She was trapped in a shocked silence, and then burst into a bright smile, "Oh, I like this one! Ha—he was always so silly in all our gym classes! It was so funny—I kind of miss seeing him trip all the time!" Taking a seat next to him on the bed, she urged he look, and he felt the muscles tighten in his face while Lelouch flailed in a poor display of, well, whatever he thought that was when he did it.

It was ripped from his throat, a deadpan of, "No, he was just horrible on his own. He was never good at those sorts of things."

Shirley closed it, as if it were fragile as glass, and muttered a simple, "I don't think Lulu is horrible no matter what he's doing."

It was strained, "Why not?"

"Well, he's a good person," she finished easily, luring Arthur into the safety of her arms, "I think he was trying his best. Don't you?"

". . . Yes, yes, I do, Shirley," but that was just another of his lies.

* * *

_AN:_ UGH, I need to get more characters in this. Also, next chapter Suzaku and Lelouch have a reunion. Sparks (and possibly bullets) will fly!

:D Thanks for reading, and Happy (belated) Thanksgiving.


	8. The riddle: you and I

**Title:** And in blood

* * *

_AN: _In which C.C. watches memories like a sort of acid trip television drama. Or something. (I just hope it's not awkward to read, but, what the hell. I don't like to write flashbacks since they seem . . . dishonest to me, and C.C.'s link with the Unconsciousness seems to imply this could be perfectly plausible under certain circumstances.) On that note, I work a little with the Code.

**NOTE: Anything in **_italics_** in the second scene with C.C. is either a conversation or a thought of another character. **

***Also: Warning for some disturbing elements. The faint of heart should tread carefully. (Or just not think too hard about it. D: )  
**

* * *

Lelouch did not consider himself a sentimental man, but he felt a pang of nostalgia as he wrestled to the peak of a mountain of stairs jutting free from the cliffs. Namely, it was the stitch in his side, but the chirping of cicadas—a shaking, overwhelming hum rushing over his body—and a glaze of fresh rain clinging to the curves of leaves stirred him to a response. The car was abandoned a street away, windows tinted ink black to hide any traces of its owner's identity. He felt a childish anxiety coil around his mind; Lelouch had intended only to investigate a cave showing traces of the Geass cult in its design, but the shrine had taunted him as it loomed against the midday sky.

_'Well done, but a replica is just that.'_ He made an effort to remind himself to go see if that skeleton of a shed was still standing. The place had a history, older than he cared to remember, and Lelouch felt a twitch of curiosity that didn't die in the face of time.

C.C. was a ghost that clung to his shadow, tracing his footsteps as they rang across an empty threshold. Something in him was furious that she had blatantly refused his order—followed regardless of her own safety, and was wearing that controlled, empty smile on her lips. Kaminejima was barren, damn near unpopulated as far as the census was concerned, but this was situated in the prefecture.

"Happy?" It was low as it slipped free from that lying veneer, and he felt something inside him recoil.

"Not necessarily that," he insisted dryly, "Perhaps nostalgic, but there's no place for sentiment in the real world."

The smirk widened and she glided away from him, "So you've jeopardized your success for nothing. You aren't even angry I've come along—how disappointing."

"The area is deserted due to the SAZ and rebellion. There's too much civil unrest to trust tourism," he was stoic as he chased after her, his face blank and unreadable, "I doubt that anyone . . . but, as I can't force you to stay, I see no meaning in pushing you."

"How very nice," there was no secret barb in her words, and she cast a backwards glance over the mountains, "I'm glad to see I'm so welcome."

Abandoning his frustration, Lelouch let his eyes wander to the leaves as they splintered light into weak streams, and the shrine towering below the sun's glow—bright and fiery, with the air haunted by a teasing scent of sandalwood. The cynic buried in him whispered that there was a reason for that, and urged that he forget his melodrama, or emotion, or whatever name he gave it. He swallowed down his logic and breathed in the familiarity of a place he knew so well, yet _didn't _before easing past a slope that broke into a path hidden by the undergrowth.

It was younger where age once hugged its angles and weighed on its walls, but Lelouch knew that ashes linger for days, long after the foundation has crumbled and there is nothing. The memory of a skeleton of a building colored ink black with veins of fresh brown threading its broken body lived somewhere beneath the surface. Ancient and ignored, but _there_, as if it were a phantom waiting in the shadows. Feeling heavy with the culmination of seven years of misery, he ached for Nunally's smile and his—perhaps in a few years, when there was nothing but her world, they could come together. If only he could free her of that chair, her blindness, her depression, and their mother's death. Remake all that horrible pain she carried below that pretty grin.

". . . I detested the Kururugis and the Sumeragis originally. They knew the implications of their decision to take us in," there was a hard edge to his voice, "Ha. Were I to be honest, that feeling has never dulled. Continuing the war, my own status as a political hostage, and . . . However, I see nothing in reserving that for a place, of all things. This is where I lived."

"You 'lived,'" she was caustic, "But is that enough."

"I was able to create a home for Nunally and myself here. Before that, I had never been particularly independent, and, despite that it was damn near intolerable," he fell to a weary quiet, "A home was important for Nunally's sake."

"Intolerable?" C.C. was his echo, and he slipped ahead of her.

"I was suffering from severe culture shock. The transition itself was not," he searched for the word lingering on his tongue, "Smooth. They clearly had no long-term interest in me."

"Hm."

"I don't know what I felt at the time. I wondered if my aunts and uncles would protest my father's decision. Which, of course, they failed to do. Ironic, considering they wept so dramatically over my mother's grave," Lelouch was spiteful as their abandonment whispered to the forefront of his mind, "I avoided others, and argued against the Prime Minister's 'decisions' for me. It was a powerless position, but . . . looking back, I preferred it to my own father's care. At least I wasn't under his thumb."

"You truly do hate him," it was spoken to their silence, and Lelouch gave no answer.

"I was glad to be free of him, but . . . In all respects, I had simply moved to a second prison."

"So why did your opinion change."

"I was offered a chance to bargain for Nunally's freedom if I agreed to become a diplomat specializing in Britannian and Japanese relations," the Prime Minister's oaths were asking prices attached to pretty words, that much he remembered, "In short, agreed to remain a political prisoner throughout my life. My own independence wasn't important if I could . . . secure something for her."

"Ha, fine, then don't tell me," lights danced in her soft amber eyes, and Lelouch tore his gaze from her, "I don't care. And his terms?"

"Nunally, of course, the bastard. But his other threat was," he was disgusted that something like hesitation slithered into him, and pieced together his confidence, "To send Suzaku to . . . live with the main family. I couldn't allow that to happen. I was furious that he used his own son as a bargaining chip—his death was no great loss to the world. In many ways, I must have felt there were . . . similarities between the two of them."

"Perhaps."

No longer bound by the chains of false protection, he hated him for that and was without remorse that the man was fated to the end of his two-faced glory, "Ha. It may have even been beneficial. Negligence doesn't have any meaning."

". . . You don't particularly care for fathers, do you," her voice was empty and whimsical, and Lelouch smothered the anger rattling in his skull.

"I think Shirley's was a good man," in a sick way, his body rejected the image of a loving home, "But some simply don't deserve to become parents. My father is one of them."

"Well . . . having a piano doesn't mean you can play it, I imagine . . ."

It was warning, dark and cynical, "If there's anything the world has taught me, it would be that no one will catch me when I'm falling. I despise those that play me into self-satisfying dependence."

"Do others lure you into it," she mused lightly, gliding into the shadows, "Or do you fall free and alone . . ."

_'To think that I—'_ the sound of footfalls crept into his ears, and Lelouch's muscles went tense as wind coiled over the cliff side.

"Reflective?" He was casual, but something in him shuddered, "A strange—"

"What the hell are you doing," it was bitter and furious, left to tear into him, "You, people like you have no right to be here—"

Feeling a twitch of irritation, he sneered a cryptic, "This place belongs to me as much as it does you."

"Turn around," Suzaku growled through gritted teeth. Lelouch's answer was silence while he searched for C.C., choking down a lingering suspicion that she'd known he was here. _'Damn it! Why didn't she tell me?! Does she have some reason for . . .'_

"Face me!" It came again, losing its steady control, but he kept dutifully turned away. Provided the Empire kept to its rulebook, he should have been denied the use or privilege to carry his gun. A man recovering from a bullet wound to the leg would need ample preparation during and after his recess to accommodate for muscle loss, and that was ignoring any assumed psychological stress resulting from the SAZ.

"I'm afraid that I don't feel the need," he was flat; even further, Suzaku had yet to report either Kallen or himself to the authorities. There was no point to loyalty unless he retained their mutual ties, and Lelouch understood the importance of open defiance. It was destructive to cause himself needless anxiety as, grudgingly, he _was_ physically sub-par, and he resented fearing _Suzaku_, of all people.

_'He won't kill me for Nunally's sake,' _if he wanted to, he could have managed without _announcing_ it. Perhaps he was assessing his options, but capture was impossible without a warrant due to his cultural background. If there was anything Britannia exalted, it was its own superiority, and no self-respecting officer would believe him without factual evidence—calling _any_ man Zero was too weighty a claim for them to ignore formalities unless they intended to stage an execution.

There was a shuffling of cloth and steel, "We'll finish this today, Lelouch."

He did nothing other than snarl a sardonic, "There's so much destruction in the world, and all you can do is complain about me. How self-satisfying." It was vindictive, carving a deep, heavy silence, but Lelouch wasn't particularly interested in niceties. Some part of him was far too bitter these days.

"This has nothing to do with you," he doubted that, and his mind wandered to the possibilities as they clamored underneath his inbred poise of ice and steel. Schneizel was a double-faced carnivore, but he was well aware of the sway of a good poster face and public sympathy. He must have excused his gun usage in response to the death threats, "You—I'll turn you over to the Empire before you cause anymore tragedy!"

"Would shooting an unarmed civilian with no discretion have any real merit. You will lose your position for murdering an innocent Britannian, and it will undo everything you've done thus far—"

"Even," he stumbled over his words, "If that happens, I'll stop you!"

"They will think you've gone insane from grie—"

"I haven't!" He sneered, suddenly vicious and feral, "You know what you did! You _know_!"

". . ." Lelouch felt a twinge of guilt, and finally resigned to swiveling on his heel.

"Why did—why would you do this?! You never gave an answer!" He offered no pretenses as Suzaku shivered under his gaze. It was what it was, and there could be no changing that.

"To insure Britannia's downfall. There were no alternatives. Or," the insinuations crept below his indifference, "Do you not trust me?"

"You—you had no choice? Why not?!"

He wrestled himself to silence as the reasons bled into one, and said nothing.

It tempted a grimace, and he let his gun hang at arm's length, ". . . You'll betray the world! I will _never_ trust you!"

"_—!_"

"You'll become a tyrant! I'll stop you before that happens—"

It was ripped from his throat, "Do you think so lowly of me?! I didn't want you nor Nunally or Euphemia to suffer any more than—I had no other option! Things are not so simple, not so black and white!"

_ 'How can you—do you think I felt no shame, __**nothing**__?! I would have never brought about her death if I didn't have to! I did what was best!'_ Lelouch _felt—_it was a heavy burden, but it had to be done. That was all. What could have changed her death?! Should he have taken her hostage forever!? She would have destroyed the entirety of the country—torn it apart, and he gave the order that led to it! How could he possibly call him a villain, he had _never _intended for that evil to come to pass!

"You even used Nunally to feed your own ambitions! They may believe you—the Order, Kallen—but I won't! Give me _a reason_, Lelouch!"

He breathed a desperate, "_Listen_ to me—"

"Then what?!" It was acerbic, and Lelouch fought the urge to choke on his secrets.

". . . it was necessary. Death was the preamble to a greater, prosperous Japan," sick with himself, the truth refused to roll off his tongue, and he wished to god he knew how to be honest. The Geass was dyed crimson with gore, and he didn't want Suzaku, Nunally, or the world to hear him admit to his bloodshed. It clung to him, a disease that left him both honored by the promise of power and horrified with the aftermath of deceit.

"You killed _Euphie_ and then used her death as a pretext to justify your actions!" Suzaku's voice trembled, "What have you ever done that's been true?!"

"Suzaku—" He struggled to keep hold of his dignity, piecing together his indifference.

"Your entire existence is a mistake I should have acknowledged! Admit to your crime and appeal to the Emperor!"

"My father?!" It was a hiss clawing through his throat, "Are you intending to turn me over to damn Britannia?! To that bastard!"

"It's the cor—"

Principles of wrong, of right were mere conveniences and he rumbled a dark, "What about Nunally?! Who will care for her?! _You, _after leaving me to die?!"

"I," Suzaku stumbled over the words, straining below Lelouch's fiery glare, "don't have any choice. You—with what you've done, I can't accept leaving her there! She can reinstate herself as a member of the royal family—"

"—_!!_" It was disgusting as it died in the air, and Lelouch swallowed on retorts whispering in his skull. _'What the hell is he thinking?!' _ He didn't lie because he wanted to—he had to! Blood covered him from head to toe, soaked him until it seeped deep into his bones, and he carried that weight everywhere! He could no longer pretend away his own involvement—he had stole their_ lives_, ripped them from their families and worse. Guilt was disregard, and he had to admit that he killed them because it was a necessary cruelty in a cruel reality! In a land where _his_ father massacred and broke and destroyed the weak, those who were not even players on their chessboards! Who did not ask for death, but were forced to accept it for the sake of Social Darwinist theory and old ideas that needed to die! His father—his father was a man that had reduced a city, its _very foundation_, to dust. He forced segregation and spat on their sacrifice, their suffering! Why side with the Devil?! Why give a damn! What madman would destroy a_ city_ in one swoop! Had he grown to _accept_ Britannia's twisted visions?! '_He's living in chaos! I don't understand what he expects to __**accomplish—**__why choose this?!' _

There were too many who hid behind and laid silent—he knew, he _was_ one of those sheep who willfully lived in ignorance for the sake of protection from the strong. In a life he had long ago abandoned, he was pitiful and apathetic and everything he _despised _about humanity. There was no returning anymore, no will in him to wait patiently while armies cleaved through the countryside! With the Geass, he was powerful; he could enact a justice that was so desperately needed, change everything!

Altruism was dead. Humanity was foolish and condemned to short-sighted suspicions, but Lelouch studied all the possible outcomes; his father would barrel through China eventually, when he could create an _immortal_ army. And oh merciful god, he _knew—_that revolting bastard knew what he would do! Then there would be nothing, just the mass genocide that was the result of his eugenics and a world ruled by _him_, when he had long ago garnered a right to death.

There was simply no time to hang from the coattails of superiors and let rhetoric buzz through his ears. He forged a mask and hid his emotions for the sake of the rebellion that needed a _leader_ and not a seventeen year old boy who was afraid of failure because it meant the collapse of a people's _hope_! The SAZ was his catharsis; by staining Euphemia's name with gore, he had to accept Zero's monstrous legacy as his own. There were no false glories, and he could only hope that he could make amends to his dead. Every moment tore at him—would they find Nunally and torture her for information? Would he die tonight when he was still young? Would his father raze the world and laugh as it decayed, mocking it as he'd mocked their Mother?! Lelouch changed, numbed feeling and conscious and all the aspects of humanity that he clung to because it was the only way!

He pretended, lied, and it was an ugly fate—if he wept, then he devalued their belief in him, admitted that he was ashamed of their deaths when he took them without giving their owners a choice. If he was a murderer, then he would _stand_ as a murderer. It was godawful and he was condemned to hell, but he would kill for Nunally's future. Even if he had to _hate _himself, he would continue to choose that dark, crimson path to rid the world of its violence!

And this, they were fighting because of _this_. Britannia, a country that took everything from them both, had torn them apart. He had been loyal! Loyal for_ seven damn years_, and now Suzaku dared to throw him away?! How the hell could he be so arrogant! Lelouch fought against Britannia to bring its downfall, struggled to fulfill a promise forged what felt like a lifetime ago, and been weathered by years of hatred and self-disgust. The words were silent in him, but he believed in action—had created Zero, that hideous _mask _that left him separated from the world. He was raised Britannian, given everything that he asked for, as the ghettos became silent cemeteries that buried their corpses in rubble and bullet shells! Lelouch was not arrogant enough to claim that he was underprivileged, nor that he reflected the victims he so fought for. He remained a dying man gratifying his pity for the beaten—very provisional, he mused dryly, as weakness was a temporary state destined to both sides. The true argument of an arm's dealer!

Zero could not control feeling; he was merely a shell with a grandiose label, waiting for hearts to move, just as chess pieces were the extensions of their masters. He felt repulsive and guilty, and knew himself a child still bound to his father's birthrights in that the weak can never protect themselves. It was a sickness that discredited the honesty of his rebellion, of his very beliefs, and the life he clung to. If they knew what Zero, what _he_ was, they would never love him. When he was a child, he—he thought about things that were alien to children, about sicknesses that should never have crept into his mind.

He saw himself murdering his father in cold blood and enjoying it; the glory in soldiers dying in the name of the innocent; realized how the world was a vile, disgusting place that festered and never changed. He remembered his mother broken on the staircase as her dress was drowned in red, and Nunally shaking and in tears when she gasped in a sterile hospital bed, awake after four days of silence. The dead painting the horizon in macabre as they trailed forward, and the way Suzaku trembled as he realized he had no home, nothing. When _he_ suddenly understood that his happiness was so _very_ short-lived, and that there was no shrine for him to hide in and imagine some beauty in human faith. That friends could die, and the world would forget, continue all its loops around the sun without a second glance. He learned then that the essence of time, space, humanity, was that it was apathetic to the needs of one boy in a thing of millions stretching across the universe.

The world was cruel, and his hate was raw in his chest, a wound that was carved opened and then twisted together with makeshift stitches. Bent and broken at fragile angles, it never closed and rotted to dead cells—pieced the corpse that was Lelouch vi Britannia, and forced him to take the Geass that gave life to Zero. A man's birth marks his beginning, but also his eventual end: death. That was the essence of creation.

Lelouch trusted that _he_ would understand his grudge, and why Britannia had to be murdered and then reborn. It was only he who had ever completely broken him open—only Suzaku who he trusted with Nunally, with his _everything_, the sister he could never sacrifice! _'How—how can I care for her if you aren't there?! I . . . I was never able to do anything, even** then**! And now, now **you** would turn her over to **them**?!'_ Yet he was his _enemy_. The cosmic irony, that _Suzaku_ would ask him to lay down and die while allied with his goddamn father's Knights. He valued him, intended to have him at his right side when he took Britannia because it was where he belonged—together, they could conquer the world.

But Lelouch was alone and Suzaku had sneered that he was worthless, a blunder of God. That he hated him.

"You—!" he growled, fingers tense at his sides; trembling, "Fine then, shoot me! Become a murderer of your own accord—my shadow, Suzaku!"

"Say what you want to satisfy yourself! You _deserve_ to die for what you've done!" There was silence as he lifted the gun, that infernal gun issued from the military, and Lelouch went rigid as the spotter waltzed up his torso in a spin of red. He waited, mouth drawn into a thin line, but no shot screeched through the air.

"Your resolve is weak—you can't kill me, even now," Lelouch was vindicated as Suzaku's arm dropped, teeth gritted and fingers clutching at the gun's steel, "Go back and cry over her grave. The real world is no place for children who refuse to accept reality!"

It came, a blur as it connected, and he stumbled backward before he closed a fist on his uniform, "You have no right to judge _anything _I do!"

"You're deluded about the nature of the future! One cannot move forward if they cling to fantasies and wallow in their own guilt!"

"What do _you_ know about guilt! You don't take responsibility for anything!"

He spat it like poison threading through his veins, clawing at his wrist, "Yours is not the only way!"

"That doesn't make yours right!"

C.C. glided with the wind at her heels, ripping free from the protection of the underbrush in a streak of pale skin and green tumbling past her shoulders. Lelouch felt his throat hitch, the words lost on him while she shot forward on nimble feet.

"You, from the Special Administration Zone, are you—!" Suzaku choked down the rest, stunned when she barreled into his chest and gripped his wrist. The sheer force sent them both reeling over the edge and down the churned earth as he went stiff, the Geass sigil flaring a brilliant red on her forehead—burned there like a slave branding drawn in carnage red.

Lelouch stumbled in the dirt, nails biting into his palm as he witnessed them disappear in a rumble of sound. Struggling to stand upright, he tore to the side and was furious as his eyes darted from corner to crevice. His heart drummed in his chest, a distant, violent buzz of fear lingering in his skull as he realized that they—they had fallen, and it broke into crags some fifty feet down.

_'Damn it! That was reckless, C.C.! He could—regardless, the Geass did not activate . . .' _Lelouch drowned out a lingering sense of fear and worked himself to a mockery of composure, _'The SAZ? Where the hell did the two of them meet?!'_

_- - -_

She skirted through an endless labyrinth of halls spreading across a white world, empty and stretching forever. Walls sprung from air and climbed towards the nothing that was its domed ceiling—little more than a film of shadow that slithered above her, writhing and shuddering before falling to standstill. The Complete Consciousness, the _mind_ when left to its own devices was a collage of pictures hung in a showroom of memory.

_"You can't blame another for growing in a different social milieu," _Lelouch's statement was flat_, "It's fine to make mistakes." _

_ "Ha, yeah . . . it's a lot different than anything they taught in the ghettos," _he was wearing a nervous smile and she was left to stare, pausing in the midst of her very literal mental exploration_, "Um, definitely harder, but I guess . . ." _

"I dislike the world of C.," she murmured dryly, "Humans are incapable of keeping their thoughts to themselves, after all."

Lelouch's voice, frustration hidden beneath indifference, was an interruption, _"—I was under the impression Britannia did not teach their Numbers." _

_ "Lelouch—" _

_ "It doesn't matter where you come from. I myself have little fondness for the institution, but if it's important, then perhaps . . ." _She smirked, reminded of his lies of 'night classes' when, in truth, he had found the courage to abandon his school career. A man aiming to take power by force had no need for a degree, after all, and Lelouch had been exhausted by the constant juggling of exams and terrorism.

_ "Why don't you try? Things like this should be easy for you—" _She observed as he twisted back to the window, Suzaku left to wait in curious silence.

_ "I'm above their dogma, and it is of no great interest to me." _Certainly not. He despised all aspects of his heritage, and he had long ago committed to destroying his father's monarchy.

_ "Heh. You're still the same as seven years ago." _

_ "Arrogant?"_ She was amused at his easy-going smile,_ "That's—" _

_ "No." _

_ ". . ." _It died instantly, and she thought of the two of them as children, racing down that horrible staircase in a blur of limbs, grins, and complaints. Suzaku had been a 'gift' for Lelouch and Nunally, who were pertinent in Marianne's small world—she had never given him any particular thought outside of a teasing sense of nostalgia.

_ "You were always the kind of person who warned against believing everything. Passionate about the types of things you liked or didn't like." _

_ "I am not a particularly honest person." _

_ "Huh—" _

_ "Some of those things,"_ an eyebrow arched, she was astonished at the honesty playing beneath his stoic mask,_ "I've betrayed." _

_ "Like what?" _

_ ". . . Heh," _Lelouch forced him to stare at the papers and textbook, and she called it confession,_ "Aren't you supposed to be having trouble. If you're so confident, I could always find a more entertaining pastime—" _

_ "That isn't fair. You brought it up," _teasing was of no great interest to her, her mind drifting elsewhere,_ "What, have you forgotten how to censor everything you say now—" _

_ "At least the things I say are sensible." _

_ "Why does everyone say that . . ." _

_ "It's very endearing to watch you extract your foot from your mouth, Suzaku, however the rest of the world—" _

_ "Hey, don't be like that." _

_ "Heh." _

_ ". . . You know," _twirling on her heel, it was faint as it coiled into her ears_, "I'm really happy you both are okay. After the war, I . . ." _

_ ". . . The war is over. This isn't the time or the place. Later, Suzaku, but not here . . ." _

Why school was of any great importance was beyond her, and she tapped a delicate, spindle-thin finger to her lips. She never particularly cared much for it herself, even after she had long since attended her fair share of universities—as a girl, they taught her for the sake of learning to read religious scripture, and nothing else. That was the essence of slavery: accept control and no man strikes you with a whip. It would be years before she grasped that knowledge was more than verbatim and that words were ink thrown across the page. "Ah," the pink rippling in her vision was ethereal, belonging to a ghost stolen from another life, "It's that Princess—Euphemia."

_ "Suzaku," _it was gentle_, "What do you think of the work I've been doing? Do you think I'm doing well?"_

_ "You've been doing fine, Your Highness." _

_ "You . . . think I am?" _The girl was cautious, an unusual change from the breezy smiles she wore and her quick-to-action approach. She wondered offhandedly if they had spoken in Aries Villa, but her memory was a fog she chose not to wander through.

_ "I don't really know much about, uh, how these things work," _that was obvious; she had bore witness to a long line of politicians, and he was ill suited_, "But you've contributed to hospitals, as well as started integration throughout the edu—" _

_ "No, **you** did that. And, even then, it was a small change . . ." _

_ "However, if we work towards that goal, we can probably—" _

It seemed to give the girl confidence_, "Accomplish much more." _

_ "Yes." _

_ "I'm sorry. Have I made you nervous?" _

_ "No, I have faith in your judgment." _

_ "It isn't . . . just because I'm a princess, correct?" _Perhaps. Princesses do have an incredible sway over their Knights, after all.

_ "I . . ." _

_ "Um, can I ask another question?" _She took note of an underlying urgency_, "If it's no trouble—" _

_ "No, it's fine. I'll do my best to answer it." _

_ ". . .What do you think of me, personally?" _Euphemia was doomed to self-doubt, and she wondered idly what answer Lelouch would give if he had known it then.

_ "Of you? Why?" _

_ "I haven't done anything to help the Japanese, even though I represent this country . . . Does it . . . insult you? I did not ask you if you had any desire to be my Knight . . ." _

It was serious_, "I wouldn't be insulted by Her Highness's actions." _

_ "You wouldn't?" _

_ "No. You're trying your best, and, and I haven't done . . . I think what you're doing is admirable, Your Highness." _

_ "Is it difficult," _Euphemia tore her gaze from him, _"To fight against your own people . . ." _

Typical of the boy, he forced an uncomfortable_, "I believe what I'm doing is correct." _

_ ". . . You're very strong." _

She passed picture after picture, a hiss of voices slipping free from their secret homes—the boring, abstract construct of the human mind. Ironically, she mused, it was very empty for everyone, but amazingly vast. Footfalls whispering behind her before they died in air, she swept forward and quickened her pace. If he woke, she would lose her tentative grasp over his subconscious, and she was not yet able to establish what his relationship to Geass _was_. She had ideas, many of them, but time had made her life into an mockery, and she knew of its apathy.

_"Shh! Shh!" _The sound of a weeping girl, spluttering in Japanese_. _

_"Adults can't expect children to stand on a crowded bus," _Lelouch, always willing to fight an injustice and offer his hand to the needy_. _That part of him was a nuisance, but it tempted a smirk from her as the pilo—Suzaku followed his lead and rose to his feet as the girl collapsed into Lelouch's seat. _"What are you—" _

_ "Well, you're right, aren't you?" _The mother whimpered her thanks before slipping past the two of them, and she remembered Mao—was heavy with thoughts of when he was a child tugging at her hand, wearing that timid grin. She had never been blessed with the ability to nurture, let alone understood the practice; the Code had robbed her of a woman's womb and thus of parenthood. According to Charles and his mass of pseudo-scientists, her body was continuously trapped in the moments before death: condemned to living for an eternity as a result of constant self-healing. Time would never move for her, and the infant growing in her stomach was considered a foreign agent—systematically aborted, perhaps in a comedic caricature of birth control. It would be repulsive had she not accepted that whatever she had become was beyond humanity's limited grasp—surpassed primitive thought and biological impediments in the name of progress. Of the future.

_"Why not, Suzaku?" _Euphemia was important, she supposed; Lelouch had mentioned that he thought the boy might love her, but it had been a begrudging assertion, and done in passing. She had never had the chance to ask him herself, given the circumstances of their contract.

_ "I guess . . . it was never very important to me." _

_ "How intrepid!" _

_ "Princess Euphemia—?" _

_ "Things like that are very, very important! What would you do if the military didn't work out?" _Presumably not very much. Wartime was hell to a soldier, and she knew it firsthand—had been one throughout her plethora of lifetimes. On the battlefield, only a fool or a martyr runs to his own death.

_ "I haven't thought about it . . ." _

_ "You should be more concerned! I am very fond of my tutoring myself! Oh!" _

_ "Ah—yes, your Highness?" _

_ "Would you like to study with me?" _

_ ". . . I don't think your tutors would be willing to teach me . . ."_ She could not swallow her sardonic hum of, "That is an understatement."

_ "That won't do at all . . . Hmm . . . Yes! I know!" _

_ "Ah—" _

_ "I'll find you a school to go to! I bet there's many things you'd be good at!" _Then Euphemia had recommended he enroll at the academy. Despite that she doubted the girl had any honest political influence, it remained a feat to have forced him into a prestigious, all white European setting.

_ "Your Highness, I can't ask you to do that! And besides, there's no reason for anyone to go out of their way for me . . . I'm only talented at piloting, and even then I'm not—" _

_ "No! I simply must repay your kindness! We're friends now, aren't we?" _

_ "I . . ." _

_ "Yes! We're friends, Suzaku! I've never known anyone outside of the palace before . . . So I'd like us to continue this friendship. It's very different—and . . ." _

_ "Your Highness . . ." _

_ "And we get few opportunities to change our lives. Please, could I order you to reconsider?" _

_ "Haha! And if I didn't listen to her Highness?"_ It was difficult to imagine him as the bigoted little boy that regularly left his fists to do the talking, and had that silent, teasing bitterness below his grin. In her experience, change was the cruelest irony of the human condition; both an origin and constant, yet, by virtue of existence, also destructive. "Heh," she mused to still air, "He, though, must have hated it—Lelouch never did adapt well, even when he was younger."

_ "Then you would be a very insubordinate soldier of Britannia, Suzaku! I'm sure she would be very disappointed in you." _

_ "Hah. . . But do you really think I need to?" _

_ "Cornelia has always told m—no, __**I **__believe it's necessary to take advantage of the options provided by our Empire. And imagine, if you could go to school with Britannians, then maybe everyone . . ." _

She wandered, easing through webs of corridors that winded into the emptiness that was the World of C., and felt a creeping apprehension tickling up her body. Being here was the epitome of power, yet she was stunningly vulnerable; she had no control of her physical body within a secondary plane of existence, and her knowledge of the World outside of C. was restricted to the bare minimum. Silencing the echoes in her skull, she twirled to the right and slipped deeper inwards.

_ "You can come whenever you like, Suzaku," _Nunally, she noted with some interest, and her eyes flitted to the familiar smile.

_ "But I . . ." _

_ "You will always have a home with us. __With Brother and I." _

_ ". . . Nunally . . . I left the two of you alone. Are you okay with that? . . ." _

_ ". . . That wasn't your fault, Suzaku. We, we're happy, and it's wonderful to have you here. Almost the same . . ."_

Nothing in her needed to hear more as she bolted ahead—in reflection, Nunally was perhaps the most tolerable human being she'd met in a decade or so. Such a kind girl, if somewhat unstable. It was unfortunate they were so deeply involved in adult wars, but it had been Marianne's will.

_ "Had the Prime Minister not abandoned our fucking country, we wouldn't even be under Britannian rule! What kind of bastard doesn't fight, and __**kills himself**__ instead?! Damned coward!" _It was a sneer from a Japanese businessman left to wait for soldiers to round him into an interment camp. Loud, with all the frustration of a patriot that had no country and no power. Suzaku pulled away—was youthful, perhaps eleven or twelve—and hid behind the safety of a crumbling carcass of a building, a watch gripped in his fingers._ 'I couldn't stand you! I __**hated**__ you, you could have stopped it—I'm sorry!' _The desperation shocked her before she ricocheted ahead,_ 'I'm sorry I got mad, I—!' _

"Watches do not answer prayers," it was mumbled, a hiss in the silence, "And neither do corpses." Apologies were useless in a world where there was no one to hear, and God was too busy a man to forgive. She swept beyond another and another after it, and the voices, clamoring and swelling before they fled from her, buzzed their dissonant secrets until they were a distant throb in her skull.

_"__We will make it out of this. All three of us, together. Don't be so quick to throw Nunally or I away." _ A child, black hair curling at his jawline, sneered between gritted teeth—it was odd to see him young and drenched in blood, and she recalled trailing their footsteps in the midst of pandemonium to ensure Lelouch and Nunally found a name to hide behind.

_ "That's not what I was trying to—!" _

_ "It doesn't matter if you leave; we're in danger wherever we go. If that's the case, then we carry one another." _

_ "Lelouch . . ." _He was exhausted, head buried in his knees,_"But don't you get tired of that. . ." _

_ "My mother would tell me this: if you don't have a purpose, a reason for fighting, then remember that you're alive now. What greater purpose is there. I don't need anything else in my life other than reasons to keep moving forward. Even if there is no meaning in life, I," _he fell to quiet, and added a cynical, _"Well, I need to live. That's all. For Nunally." _

_ "What—what if right now everything's wrong!" _

_ "Then they might never get better," _she took in the implications of children murmuring the doubts of an adult, and her face was frigid and emotionless.

_ ". . ." _

_ "However, if . . . things are broken, they can be repaired," _that was unexpected, and she fell to a brief halt.

_ ". . . How can you never be scared," _it was a low whisper, his fingers rigid as they dug into the fabric of his button-up.

_ "Suzaku?" _

_ "I'm . . . really, I'm scared. Really scared, okay!" _

_ ". . . This is your country," _Lelouch dwindled to nothing, and forced a pitiful,_ "I . . . " _

_ "I lived my life sheltered; I never understood anything! I used to think that Japan was—that it was fine to . . . I don't want so many people to die. . . I'm worried about Kaguya and Tohdoh-san, and we . . . we can't stop this war. All those . . . they cornered them in the shrine and—" _

_ "Don't talk about it!" _It stood as the most erratic, desperate thing she had ever heard from him, and she puzzled over an alien guilt—perhaps Marianne was remorseful, but no sound rang inside her, and she dismissed her curiosity.

_ "—They burned them alive. __Why__? What the hell did we do to deserve this."_

_ "You didn't do anything! __**They're**__ disgusting!" _

_ ". . . Lelouch. I . . . I don't want to die." _

_ "You won't! Both Nunally and you, Suzaku . . . I'll make sure nothing happens to either of you!" _

_ "You can't do that. You're just lying," _the fear was teasing below the surface, and he broke into a sob of,_ "I—I couldn't protect anyone, I couldn't do __**anything**__—" _

_ ". . ." _

_ "They didn't even pick up the bodies . . . they, they took whole families and shot them into ditches without caring if they died, if, if infants didn't have mothers or anything to take care . . . They didn't care at all, they . . . I don't want to remember, it makes me wish I had never been born, if this is the kind of world—"_

_ "Don't say that! The war will—it'll end soon, then perhaps. . ." _

_ "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry!" _

_ "What?!" _

_ "All those times I called you a coward, I never even . . . you're really strong, you're amazing," _she wondered idly how those feelings transitioned into such an intense hatred. The Geass truly was an astounding, twisted invention; it was ancient, older than the universe itself, and she found herself trapped in thoughts of her own youth—when she first spun through its spiral of neon and electric blue. It was something so terrifying, so beyond a human's comprehension that she could still imagine the chill curling up her spine even long after the Code had stole her emotions.

_ ". . ." _

_ "I didn't know you at all, and you didn't hate me for it . . . even though I was a . . ." _

_ "I was never angry at you for that. It's fine!" _

_ "I just wish it had never happened . . . I just want to go home, to have a home to go to . . . that . . ." _

There was no answer, and she breathed a dry, "Such is the fate of childhood. It fades into myth." 'Sins of the fathers,' wars, and men twitching under the summer sun as it glared in its free sky; butchery was a habit humanity could not shake itself of, always creeping in the shadows until the monster was let lose on the world.

_"Hey!"_ Spinning to her left, she eyed that boy with the strange blue hair that Lelouch seemed to have grown fond of—she had never bothered to learn his name, _"Whatever if it helps you gamble. Chess is popular with the highbrows these days. Oh yeah, Suzaku, you've got the third answer wrong."_

He cast a curious look and fingered through the notes, Lelouch deadpanning an amused, _"Do you need help." _

_"No, but thank you."_

_"Really. __You should play a game with me."_

_"Ha! But I'm not good at it." _

_ "Everyone loses to Lelouch," _Blue Hair was melodramatic, strolling into Ashford's halls with a cheerful cry of,_ "You're not alone, man!" _

_ ". . . Our understanding of chess stems from our understanding of classism," _Lelouch was cold as he guided the king to its home and worked to stand the pieces upright with careful hands,_ "The pawns exist at the mercy of a higher rank, and the Knight, and the Bishop, and so forth. Respectively, they are assigned social priority over some lower, undefined standard. The pieces exemplify a variety of power struggles, but I doubt the nobles understand the analogy. Hail Britannia, eh . . . Suzaku."_

_ ". . . What," _it was tense and restless, a suffocating quiet stirring to life as he twirled the knight between his fingers.

She had been a witness to that insincere smile, Lelouch's words breezy and nonchalant,_ "Would you prefer to be white or black?" _Wasn't that always the question plaguing the two of them. She moved again, fluid as water, and let the poison that was reality seep into her. This was the result of leaving a charge in her care, and yet here she was—returning years after she had abandoned Lelouch to his own devices. Marianne had trusted Ashford as a backer, but there was a ghost in her that speculated if there was _any_ reason they were chasing him across the country. That was left to wonder if she had contorted her own son into an experiment to test the limitations of the Geass.

_"I'm sorry for crying," _he was sprawled on the wooden floors of that Kururugi shrine that Lelouch had insisted on visiting.

_ "No, I'm the one who should apologize," _Euphemia's memory seemed to haunt him,_ "I made you sad, and, and I thought that this could—" _

_ "I'm not mad," _he murmured gently, breathing in the new scent of reconstruction,_ "This is still a really beautiful place . . ." _

_ "I—I'm really foolish," _Euphemia's voice cracked,_ "Foolish and selfish." _

_ "Euphie—" _

_ "All the things I do I seem to make mistakes with, and this," _she listened, carefree, and continued her trek into the bowels of the beast_, "I wanted to do something that would make you and . . . and everyone happy, and I can't even do that. I didn't realize it was so horrible . . ." _

Suzaku struggled to string together the sentence_, "I think . . . it's okay to not know everything about another person, and that people make a lot of mistakes. And, well," _he was timid as he managed a broken laugh, _"I don't think I would have ever come back here if not for you." _

_ "I—" _

_ "I'm happy I did, Euphie," _happy to weep over something so trivial—it was such an odd affirmation, _"Because I never would have. I wouldn't have got to see the memorial, and I would have just ran away . . ." _

_ "Suzaku—" _

_ "And felt ashamed that I couldn't have done anything, that I was in a war where so many people . . ." _

_ "But it wasn't your fault, I—" _

_ "I think . . . I think I can understand that a little better now. I always thought that . . . but everyone that I've told of my father's death, the war . . . they don't hate me for it. I'm really happy that I got to hear that from other people . . . from you and the student council, and . . . a really, really good friend," _Suzaku brushed the hair from her face, and there was a voice in her that spoke of Lelouch, and the accident that was the SAZ,_ "I was always so afraid of coming back, but look; it's different, and you can still see the mountainside like seven years ago, and it's not . . . I'm just really happy, that's all. Things are a lot better now, and I think that's amazing." _

_ "Even so . . ." _

_ "All your impulsiveness," h_e was genuinely serene, eyes closed,_ "lets me experience a lot of things I never would have wanted to do. I, ha, never imagined going to school or being a Knight, or that anyone would ever forgive me for killing him . . . Maybe he can forgive me, too. I hope he can." _

_ "Are you still," _her answer was nervous, barely ripped from her throat, _"Are you still going to fight as a soldier?" _

_ ". . . I . . . need to do some things first." _

_ "You haven't . . ." _

_ ". . . No, but I feel a lot happier. If something does happen to me, I'll still be so much happier." _

A flash of blond, brilliant at the corner of her vision, and regal purple flowing down a child's body tore her from it. "_V.V.._ I know you didn't expect me to let this go, fool." He had taken the effort to lure Lelouch to him, and bait her by suppressing the dormant Geass; this was far too elaborate a ruse to be his work alone. "Charles . . . Well, Marianne. Is this the result of a marriage spat . . . Your obligation was ended with your . . ."

She smothered the doubt tugging at her heartstrings, and bit back a sneer. Had they truly—had they truly been able to create it inside their laboratories. If that was the case, their attempts to recapture her would be riddled with urgency; were surely to become a hazard to Lelouch were she not cautious, particularly with his intense hatred for the Empire. She had no patience in her to reestablish a contract, let alone to allow him to die without achieving a complete merging of Consciousness. His Geass remained unstable, confined to only half of its full potential, and transfer was impossible.

_ "What about you, who always tries to follow the rules,"_ her face twisted into a dark glare, and she let her gaze tear into him,_ "Rules are transient things; it would be right if you removed him. Zero's taken life, hasn't he. Even now, he's using this city as a battleground __ . . . Do you want to know why she changed?"_

_ "Wha . . ." _

_ "Geass is a . . . phenomena that allows for its user to override human thought. That was his order." _

_ "That's impossible!"_ She mused an acerbic _'_wouldn't that be nice' as he crossed the length of the floor until he was at the pilot's waist, his eyes burning sharp red. "Marianne, this is a tiresome detour. I am far too old to babysit."

_ "But how else did you arrive on that island if you had no reason to flee. He's returned to Kaminejima—confirm it, if you don't believe me. Follow him." _

_ "I . . ." _

_ "Why say, 'live on.' An interesting joke he's made your life into," _there was something unnervingly casual playing beneath his indifference_, "He's condemned you to living, yet would murder what's left of your nation. . . Took all the control from you, and spat on the deaths of the innocent. We've met once before, you and I, yet . . . you couldn't protect her, and she died so violently, the pitiful thing. How sad." _And, as reality blurred to sharp angles and became a thing of solid shapes, she needed nothing else.

* * *

_AN: _Don't worry, people, Lelouch will get his own acid spin memory television drama. (And, hopefully it wasn't strange for you guys.) Also,** I edited some of chapter five so that Euphemia's grave was unmarked**. I felt this was more . . . appropriate, given the situation. And, just to say so: Britannia. It sucks. (Haha, those poor kids are screwed up for _life_ now. D8 As if they weren't bad enough in the show itself. . .) That aside, I'll admit that the Nunally kidnapping thing was always a weird situation to me . . . I mean, if Lelouch _had _died whining at Suzaku, who would have saved her? It seemed thrown together. At least in mine, Lelouch was about 80% certain he would not actually_ use_ the gun for anything. D:

. . . And, yes, I get to _finally_ write some LelouchXC.C. next chapter.


	9. Eclipse

**Title:** And in blood

* * *

_AN: _Damn it, I'm beginning to lose the obsessive high I run on. (Shoot.) Sorry, holidays and boredom and writer's block. There's also another author's note at the bottom.

* * *

The world blurred into focus, a kaleidoscope of soft colors diluted by the black threading across her vision. She was a witness, an outsider as she slid back to reality—saw herself in the infinite C. before enduring a slow fall into a thing of gravity and air and substance that left her struggling for breath. Blood clung to cold skin as night draped itself over the sky, a veil of navy that brought the shadows to life from their secret homes, and she eyed the red that long ago dimmed to a rust-colored silhouette. November chill had curled into the marrow of her bones, and she watched the leaves—a sea of brilliant scarlet and gold broken by pools of fresh green that lingered before winter moved from the southern mountains.

She caught the scent of fresh rain riding on the wind and dusted grim from her skirts while he stirred at her feet. There was silence as his hands gripped at the crag before he lurched forward, little more than a sharp jerk of his muscles, and then went stiff. Perhaps he was going to be sick, and she supposed she could understand that—even for her, whose feeling had long ago died, she could imagine the sensation of another sifting through memories and thoughts.

"You!" The sound was garbled, Suzaku stumbling as the pain surged through his right arm and red seeped through the white of his hakama.

"You're lucky you're not dead," it cleaved through the air, her words a blunt weapon of their own creation.

"Who are you?! You—You're allied with him!"

With a nonchalant shrug, she declared a dry, "And if I am? Will you 'kill me', too."

"I—" He swallowed his retort when she cut him short, turning on her heel as the sun's light was drowned by the horizon.

"It wouldn't do you any good," a person with a death sentence hung over them who couldn't die was worthless. In a sick way, a voice in her murmured that he understood that.

"How did I fall unconscious?! Wherever you—"

"Clearly," she deadpanned while groping for her missing ribbon in the dark, "You are prone to fainting."

"That thing on your forehead," he hissed, dark and cynical as his eyes found it, "It was inside the ruins—"

"He didn't tell you of me?" She was a parody of wounded, "How impolite." Kaminejima was a mistake she would be careful not to recreate; V.V. became a threat she had long ago disregarded, and that was her Achilles heel. Suzaku had been there to bait Lelouch and there was something unnerving, _sinister_ about the implications—the very idea that he hoped to eliminate her contracted from the fray, when it was _her_ business what she did or didn't do with them.

"Lelouch. . . ?" His voice was a beacon, and she abandoned her reverie.

"Are you frightened by it," it was unassuming, and he went still—no answer came as her fingers coiled around the silk and she tugged it through her locks.

"That," the pilot was final when it tumbled from his mouth, "Should never have existed."

"It is despicable, after all," she believed that much; the Geass should never be a welcome gift.

"Were the two of you always—" It was vicious, an accusation borne of nothing but assumptions.

Her answer came slowly, "Are you really in a position to demand answers from _me_. . ."

Silence permeated as the trees murmured their ancient symphonies, "You could have already done whatever you wanted."

"Perhaps that friend of yours asked me to capture you . . ." Suzaku gave no replies, but there was a teasing whisper that he had no doubts about what Lelouch would have or would have not done. Knees buckling and her body screaming at the shift from non-reality, she forced herself to rise as the white noise buzzed in her brain—listened to a whirr of pitches trapped in dissonance.

"I," she said finally, sweeping easy neon green from her shoulders, "already got what I wanted from you. But it was partially for his sake."

"You have the same mark as the boy who told me about Geass," he was cautious and she plucked at the material of her dress before letting her gaze meet his, unflinching.

"Do you want to know what it is?" No, he had long ago learned of its name, but not of it's shadowy legacy. Nothing in her was willing to compromise her and Lelouch's relationship thus far—Suzaku was something he cared for, and she had honored that for these past few months without complaint. _'But even__** I **__have my limits.' _

". . ." The pilot breathed a harsh and bitter, "I want to know why he thought using _that _was worth anything."

"Using the . . . ?" She weighed the allusions, but let them slip away into quiet again, "Irregardless, he did save you."

"He could have chosen another way."

She was darkly frank, "Sometimes there are no other ways."

"Euphemia. . ." His words were the remnants of an angry wound, "She didn't even know _why _she was dying! What the hell was he thinking! Why play with people's lives?!"

". . ."

"His order," he growled furiously, "I would have rather died!"

". . . I'm sorry," C.C. finished emptily, reminded of the horrors of Geass, "But that order won't leave because you ask it to." She was well aware that it wasn't her place to speak of the SAZ, not to him—that was Lelouch's burden, although she wondered if he would believe anything they told him. There was a treacherous calm while her golden eyes flitted to meet his and she suffered an irritating stab of the caricature of conscious the Code had left behind in her, "Can you get up."

". . ." Silence and wind babbling in the womb of evening was his reply.

"Do you think I have a gun," this time it was amused, "What prudence."

Watching intently while he struggled upright, disorientated from blood loss and the jumbled physics of C., she noticed a hesitation in his stare—as though he were drawing her against some idea, some woman who had died before they pulled her from her capsule and casket, "That outfit. I like eastern attire myself," he said nothing when she turned on her heel, "Formal wear in particular, but it's not much for practical use . . ."

Suzaku caught her by her wrists and spun her against his chest with a solemn, "You are in direct violation of the law—"

"The law," she spoke, her voice devoid of emotion, "But that's not your first concern . . ."

". . ." He studied her, tense and expecting a familiar surge of light, but none flared to life. She had no delusions of his retaliation, and realized that he had been slower to capture her than she'd expected.

"I'm not anything vital. What did that fool say," the pitiful one with the low talent score, but astounding mouth, "A slut, but does Lelouch need things like that, too . . ."

"No," she smirked at the faith below his affirmation, "He wouldn't do that."

"So you think he'll come after me," she muttered, the sound faint in the grays and black, "You can turn me to the Emperor, if you want—"

"Lelouch isn't the only reason I want to investigate you," it was ominous and stoic, a wild card she had hoped he would avoid, "Why would they involve you in a project of the Empire. They lied to their soldiers—"

"Are you assuming I'm a prisoner of Britannia," it was flat, and he worked to string together his response.

"But to be treated like that . . ." No regulation. Yes, she noted cynically, that was true.

"How sharp of you," he glared, eyes burning while she let herself find the sliver of a moon cut into the haze of navy and indigo, "There is scientific study of the Geass, but it's occultism."

"And you?!"

"I don't know anything," it was simple, "I was an experiment, not a person."

". . ." His grip loosened and he made to undo the ribbon, a red strip cascading down her spine before she waved him away.

"I won't run," he arched an eyebrow, the cloth slipping through his fingers, "I don't know where I am, besides . . . if we _are_ accomplices then I can't go very far, can I."

". . . So you won't show me where he is," she managed a shrug of her shoulders before he pried it apart and laced it past her wrists, binding her hands. They walked, carefully maneuvering past rock and cliff while he led, and she cursed her shaky footing and the mud clawing at her heels. A creek, bubbling and murmuring as water tore through its insides, craved a path through a cradle of trees and underbrush. Jerking to test the strength of the silk, she went still when he sparked a fire with a plastic bottle—abandoned in the forest by a rogue construction worker, she imagined—at his side. There was quiet, the beating of bird's wings and the croaking of frogs a backdrop before she slipped atop a boulder jutting from the dirt.

"What did you—" His mouth snapped closed as she ignored him, leaning back against the jagged stone.

"Women don't play in the mud, I'm afraid," hands tucked underneath a sharp incline, she searched for a hold to slice through the cloth. She could easily escape, then or now—in the confusion she had thrown his gun into the mud and, given the time of his 'recovery', both his arm and leg were injured. Their silence was brief when he clutched at his hakama and ripped a strip from his clean arm,"What would you do with him if you had succeeded."

"He isn't above the law," it was a growl, low and cold as death while he boiled water in the forgotten Pepsi bottle, "His actions would be punished accordingly—"

"But that man, the Emperor," she mused dreamily, tugging her legs to her chest, "Such a harsh method . . ."

"It's deserved—"

"But unusual, to choose him over everything else . . ." He doused it with warm water before running it down the gash, raw and red from the fall, "What a secondary motive . . ."

Pouring was what left over the flame, he grinded the black carcasses of wood into ash and turned to force her to stand. His look was serious, and she wondered offhandedly if Lelouch had fled the shrine to meet her or returned to Nunally. The roofs of compact houses began to ripple past leaves, patches of black and white that were shadows in the gray until a wall of concrete reached up to greet them.

"You could turn me in just as easily," it was unnerving, but she had a mind to scold V.V. for his idiocy, "I only joined the Black Knights as a passing amusement."

"Your movement resulted in a massacre," he answered darkly, "I don't . . ."

"But," she stepped lightly, landing on the sidewalk with the lithe grace of a cat, "Am I not 'the terrorist' Lelouch is."

"That may be the truth," she heard the frustration playing below his scowl, "But I don't want to help them with their research. Not in any way!"

"Ha. So then," the ribbon, a tattered shell of its former glory, fell to the roadside, "What will you do with me."

"You can leave," it was begrudging and he looked at the towering torii of the Kururugi Shrine, the steps climbing into the heart of night, "But Lelouch . . . he was no right to run free."

"Well," she turned sharply on her heel, "You can think that if you want."

- - -

Two weeks passed in silence at the Ashford's manor since the enigmatic "C.C." disappeared like an autumn breeze, its walls hidden behind the safety of rolling hills—no phone call, no visits to the Black Knights, nothing. The house was lonely without her to prowl its webs of halls, and paper birds yearned for delicate hands to finish their half-bodies as Nunally sat in an wheelchair nestled in the front room, sunlight streaming past the window glass.

"It's been very cold . . . Will it snow?" The knob turned with a hiss before it was pulled ajar and footsteps echoed on marble, "Miss C.C.! You're back!" Lelouch lingered in the drawing room, wary of visitors since Mao had swept her from him, and strained to hear the response when it came. Abandoning Ashford Academy was an irksome prospect, but he appreciated this villa's desolation—the empty countryside and the old village that stood far at its outskirts offered a solace from the settlement, where predators could masquerade as sheep in the crowd. There was a teasing paranoia that stalked him like a shadow after the second kidnapping, and he found himself often leaving Sayoko to watch the gates.

"Oh," to his shock, the voice was familiar—stoic and breezy, with a touch of disinterest, "Of course. We're bound." Stubbornly, he kept his steps slow and calculated while he rushed to the parlor—that she had the audacity to leave him in the dark about her whereabouts, her well-being!

When he objectively _threw_ the door open, taking in the sight of green hair and pale skin, there was a cheerful murmur of, "Brother, look!"

"Nunally," Lelouch said through gritted teeth, motioning for her to follow, "If you would excuse us?"

"Oh, yes! I should let Miss Shinozaki know—I'm sure she'd be happy!"

"I'm grateful," they disappeared behind the protection of the frame and slipped down the hallway, C.C. trailing him before he fell still.

"You were gone for weeks," he chose his words carefully, and she arched a thin eyebrow, "Nunally was worried in regards to your . . . absence."

She waved it away with a flick of the wrist and an indifferent, "I do what I like."

"Were you captured?" It was tentative when it spilled free, although Lelouch struggled to keep his words dutifully somber.

"No," she managed easily, eyes finding a painting of a young Veronica Ashford hung above a stuffed armchair, "I just needed a change of scenery."

"And," his voice was steady, "Suzaku?"

"He was an interesting companion."

Silence thundered through the corridors, C.C. fingering the curtain's gold tassels as they brushed royal blue velvet, "Contact me if this situation repeats itself."

". . . I suppose," was her reply, and she let her hands drop to her hips.

"If you would speak with Nunally," he swiveled on his heels, a quick pivot before heading to his personal room; a sanctuary where Nunally, being as polite as she was, tended to avoid unless provoked. Although he was a creature of habit, Lelouch had resigned to sleeping in the study for the sake of keeping her company—there were no automatic doors, nor did the staircases have mechanical adaptations to meet her needs, and he felt anxious when she was at the other side of the house.

He stepped lightly into the threshold and breathed in the must of old books, some texts having long since been burned when his father took power in the ninety's. Political rivals and social deviants had been detained as prisoners of the state, and compared to the true disease of humanity; the nature of Social Darwinism, he mused sardonically, was a convenience that encompassed more than genes. Lelouch, alone in the silence, let his fingers dangle over the keyboard and felt a tug of guilt weighing on his conscious.

- - -

Their maid—a stick of a Japanese woman with flaming brown eyes and black hair cut at her jaw—angled herself in a low curtsey as she placed a tray on the dining table, porcelain tea cups colored a rich cream rested by their knuckles.

"Thank you, Miss Sayoko," coiling her fingers around a paper bird, she listened to the girl coo a quiet, "All the pretty little horses . . ."

"A lullaby from the Americas," she said simply, examining the sharp folds and edges before pushing it away, "'Blacks and bays, dapples and grays.'"

"Yes," her smile was warm when she shifted against the plush of her wheelchair, "My mother was very fond of this lullaby."

"You remember that," it was distant as Marianne whispered, too loud in her skull, and she forced her eyes closed before prying them open again.

"Well," her voice was soft as she groped for another sheet of stationary, "I didn't used to, but Brother would sing to me, too . . ."

"Did he," she examined her own—a bright orange with cherry blossoms blooming across the face—and pressed the corners down gently, "When was this."

"Um," she cocked her head, hands coming to a slow stop, "At first, when we came to the shrine, I was unfamiliar with the language, and I didn't understand what was being asked of me. I . . . liked it when he would sing in English."

". . ."

"I would spend a lot of time listening to him. I was very anxious about his safety, and my family," Nunally dwindled to quiet, biting down her words, "I hadn't been outside the villa before that."

"Hmm," it was a murmur while her eyes drifted to Nunally's face and then fell to the paper, rough in her palms.

"I couldn't go anywhere or do anything, and sometimes he would come home furious, but then he would apologize for yelling," there was hesitation below her pleasant mask, "He wouldn't tell me anything."

"It seems lonely," she said, thinking of misery, and Mao and her contracted—all such lonesome things, attracted to her when she would one day ask that they murder her in cold blood.

"Maybe," she answered finally, her tone neutral, "But he did everything for me, and was always so considerate . . ."

"You must be very grateful," she replied smoothly, the bird half-finished in her palms.

"Yes," Nunally broke into a tender smile, limpid and brimming with energy, "I can't imagine a life without him."

"I had a brother once," her statement was dry when she dropped the crane down, frustrated with the product, "He was nothing like yours, I suppose."

"Most people don't have the relationship we do," she shuffled as the chair spun, a metallic hum screaming from its moving wheels, "Ah, but I don't mean any offense! Um . . . what did you two do together?"

"For a long time," it was blank, "he was the only person I knew."

"—?"

She leaned back, the wood nipping at her back, "He was somewhat insufferable as a result of that."

"Oh . . ." her voice died to nothing before she managed a sunny, "I have many siblings!"

"Do you like all of them?"

"Well," she mused, nervous as she pieced the words together, "Some are nicer than others."

"Hmm."

"Are you curious," Nunally's crane was complete and she carefully arranged it next to its fellows, "Miss C.C.?"

"Perhaps," the sound was muffled as she tapped a nail to the tabletop, "Who were your favorites?"

"Oh! Brother, Clovis, Euphie," a heavy weight crept in from the halls, suffocating while dead faces swam behind the sea of black that was the girl's vision, "Cornelia, too . . ."

"It's familial," she said to the stale air, abandoning the subject, "Why do you fold cranes?"

"Cranes?" It was her echo as it bounded from corner to crevice, Nunally glancing at the paper twisted by her fingers, "I'm not . . ."

"It's an old art," she was collected as she remembered the streets when they were alive in the Edo period, bristling with the thrill that came with new technology and open trade.

"Don't you like folding them? You do it so often . . ."

"Not particularly," she tasted the words on her tongue, and fumbled through a mass of rationalizations, "However, I think that this is . . . fine for now."

"Fine?" Nunally parroted, running her fingers across its stiff wings.

"Yes," it was final and bled honesty, "There's a quaint feeling to it, and that's . . . comforting."

"Is that what you think of it?"

"It seems to suit someone like you. I like it well enough, I suppose," she fell to silence, managing a bored wave of the hand, "As for you, it's impolite to stand in the doorway and listen to a woman's conversation."

"Brother?" He was a dark shadow leaning against the door frame, his pale skin bright below the light streaking the plush carpet.

"I'm deciding," it was stoic, and she gave no answer as Nunally went quiet, straining to understand the mystery of their banter.

"Does it take you that long . . ."

Clearing his throat, he choked out a lukewarm, "I'd like to cook tonight, Nunally. Is that an issue?"

"Oh!" Nunally clasped her hands together before exclaiming a jovial, "Brother is a very good cook, Miss C.C.! Have you tried it?"

"No," her eyes stalked him as he disappeared into the safety of Ashford's labyrinth of halls, and she swirled back to reality—the crane was a horrible thing, bent in awkward places, and part of her wondered if she should toss it away and begin again.

"Is something wrong . . .?" It was barely above a whisper, caution playing below her serene smile.

"Nothing," she could not create anything but superficial emotions, after all.

"But the two of you . . ."

"Don't be overly concerned," she breathed in scents wafting through the drawing room—herbs and spices, a familiar tease of tomato that lingered as Sayoko breezed past with a polite nod of her head.

"I wonder what he's doing," she added flatly, restless while she brushed the cotton of her blouse and slipped off her heels.

"He may have stopped," Nunally's hands had returned to their home in her lap, fingers laced patiently, "Since it's in the oven."

"You can tell that," it was neither a comment nor a question, her voice emptied of emotion.

"Yes!"

"You have finely tuned senses," the groan of air ducts roared to life as heat barreled through the vents, and she added a simple, "You like flowers as well as folding cranes."

"So do you," it was a reminder of the greenhouse, sweltering beneath the sun hanging in a pale brush of sky, "Miss C.C."

"Partially," she was thoughtful as she leaned in her chair, dusting stray locks from her cheeks, "But only so much. The language of flowers is very troublesome for people who aren't lovers . . ."

"I think," Nunally replied, bashful as she clasped her hands together, "that it would be very nice to have someone send flowers with so much meaning . . ." It trailed to nothing and she looked down, Lelouch easing back into the room before seating himself with a novel in his hands.

"How exhausting," was his commentary, the cynicism a sharp contrast to Nunally's sliver of a smile.

"Ah," she murmured easily, "The romantic in him is bewildering."

"The romance in it dies when the roses lose their reds," the response was dry as he buried himself in a world of language and metaphor.

"In other words, romanticism is fleeting."

Her lively murmur fractured his pessimistic front, "What are you making, brother?"

"I'm," his pause was jarring and an abrupt change in demeanor, "Well, pizza, Nunally." Feeling a twitch of curiosity, she worked to stifle Marianne's dissonant laughter as it echoed in her skull.

"Oh?" Nunally brought a finger to her chin, "That isn't like you."

"It doesn't reflect my usual tastes, no," Lelouch admitted, sulky as he tore through the pages, "But this was an exception."

- - -

Milly had propped herself on the tabletop, legs left to dangle over the edge as Lelouch tumbled inside, metal briefcase catching the bulb light as evening chill crept up his spine. Wheat blonde rippling down her shoulders, she grinned when he massaged his aching temples and shrugged away his coat—a thing of black suede that spoke style and a high price tag. A spike in Refrain plagued the southwestern sub-prefecture, and there was muttering about an ugly business deal between one of his own and a representative of Kirihara's that had ran him ragged; an associate of the Black Knights was as good as his own, and the dark history of Japan's plutocracy was stirring doubts about his loyalties. C.C. spun past him before dropping her's leisurely on the seat, the heavy cloth disheveled and coated in a thin layer of grease that was _staining_ spotless dining chairs—and with a sharp, shudder of a breath, Lelouch managed to ignore it.

"Welcome back," was Nunally's low greeting, tempting a delicate smile from him before he whirled on his heel.

It was a sharp contrast, loud and boisterous as it rang against the walls, "Hey, you two!"

"Milly," the playful spark in her eye fading, she bounced to attention, "There's a matter I'd like your opinion on—"

"Decorating? Yeah, your style is a little avant-garde, Lelouch," he shook his head at her mocking grin, "And this place is just _too_ barren, especially with all these lovely women living with you. Honestly, I didn't think he had it in him—"

"He doesn't," C.C. managed smoothly, detached before he cut her short with a flick of the wrist.

"Nunally," it was stoic while he slipped into the halls, Milly at his heels, "If you would excuse us." They moved in comfortable silence, the moonlight painting the marble's speckled blue-grays and whites with a gentle glow, and he wrestled his questions into submission.

"Are the student council members in top condition, president," he said half-jokingly, the seriousness hidden behind a smirk.

"What," she threw her arms out in demonstration, "Do you expect any less of me."

"That would be a fool's argument," there was silence, and he finished with a simple, "How are they."

"Everyone's all right," there was sadness whispering beneath her inbred poise of arrogance and cheer, "Rivalz and Shirley would be thrilled if you came back to the academy. It's funny—he keeps 'lamenting' the loss of a great gambling partner, but he secretly misses you and is too much of a stubborn_ guy_ to say so."

"Heh. And Shirley," it was emotionless as he imagined her face, framed in a halo of orange with a brilliant smile, "How has she been doing in my absence."

"She's happy, and reconstruction in the settlement is coming along nicely. As for Nina . . . she's been a little . . ." Her silence was heavy with insinuations, and he let his hand hang above the doorknob.

"Milly," it was low when it slipped free, "I . . . didn't intend to involve any of the students in the assault. I hope you understand this."

"Don't be so pessimistic," she waved a hand, dismissing his concerns with a fickle smirk, "I think that's not your personality."

"Irregardless, I endangered civilians consciously."

"Lelouch . . ." There was something deeply pained, _aching _in both of them before he pieced his self-crafted mask and listened to the lock click into place.

". . . Any news," although he had no doubts about Diethard's intellect and charisma, the man paled in comparison to Milly; he had disregarded his orders on more than one occasion, but she respected her oaths. Grasping his laptop case, a cynical voice muttered that there was a teasing eccentricity to him, and something furious and _hungry _in the way he chased after the Black Knight's campaigns. Zero was a symbol, and not a trophy in a display case of history.

"Not really," she was breezy before adding an offhand, "But I did get a little more information about the schematics from Suzaku."

"Tch," Lelouch was blunt, resentment crawling to forefront of his mind, "And the project?"

"His Highness seems to have taken an interest in Lloyd in the past five or six years," it was frank when she slid into the chair at his right side, "As for Camelot, it's a recently established division—the Knightmares were only mass-produced about two decades ago, although _you_ know that."

Her words were melodic, hummed as he deadpanned a dry, "Considering my heritage."

"It runs on a new system, but the massive amounts of Sakuradite in its design isn't really functional," there was a brief pause before she forced a breathless, "The liquid stuff is even more volatile than the ore, so there's an advanced cooling system—but, one bad spark or malfunction in that and the entire machine would be . . ."

"Obliterated," his cynicism melted her optimistic facade, and she tore her gaze from him, "However, the speed, precision and directional momentum are substantially more exact. . . and the energy current, it must have longevity. . ."

"Basically," fingers gliding across the keys, a grid of bright white shadowed by blue flashed across the screen. Milly gasped at the Gawain, admiring the 3-dimensional recreation of its metal husk of a body, and fought the urge to compare it to the Ganymede—to christen it a true testament to modern technology, the second coming of a short-lived 'new age.'

"My personal unit," he managed quietly, speaking to the air, "was developed primarily for explosive power and flight, but it's mobility and durability are lacking. And Schneizel, his dismissal of the theft of an experimental Britannia vessel is . . . perturbing."

"Then you assume," C.C. flowed into the room, arms crossed and her stare burning into the back of his skull, "That the prince intends to create a final product using both aspects of those machines."

". . . Milly," it was pensive as he steepled his fingers, "Accompany Nunally for the afternoon."

Managing a sloppy recovery from shock, she sighed a dramatic, "Fine, fine! Nunally's too cute, anyway. But Lelouch, about . . ."

"Yes?"

Lelouch felt a twitch of confusion when she fed him a sly, "Never mind." There was a suffocating weight on his chest and he battled himself to composure, C.C. raising an eyebrow at Milly's friendly wave before she waltzed deep into the heart of the manor.

". . ." Nothing came as the words whizzed in and out of focus, and he realized, horrified, that his eloquence had forsaken him.

"That's a strange face," C.C. declared emptily as he went rigid, staring into the blue light.

"I did not," Lelouch fell to suffocating silence, a painful lull as he moved his fingers across the keys, "understand the weight of immortality."

"Hm," was her empty response, and she examined her nails—sharp as knives dyed crimson with polish, "Do you now."

He wrestled with his pride before finalizing an ambiguous, "To not know death is to not know life."

"Well said," and she forced no emotion, no lies when Lelouch looked away—he felt disheveled and fragile as she looked down at him, with a face pale as ghosts below the moonlight.

"Why exactly did you cry," there was a lingering silence, and she waited gracefully before turning her head away.

"I don't know," there was a terrible apathy behind her eyes, "You had nothing to do with it. I understand the situation."

"I think that," she watched as he searched for the words, "I may have been angry. However, I—"

"—Ha, angry!" It was cynical, a return to her caricature of emotion to kill his curiosity in the womb, "An understatement; any fool would have noticed_ that_. Excusing you, but that's—"

"—I was indulgent of your company, and for that I apologize," he didn't fumble to keep his steady, somber gaze and the sound caught in her throat, "You did not connive against Nunally nor myself."

". . ."

The simplicity was honest when he let his eyes find the gold molding that webbed the walls, "You have been loyal to me, C.C.."

"How can you know that," she answered tiredly, mouth twisted into a frown, "Things like me are never loyal."

"I felt," it was awkward when it tumbled from his throat, nails biting into his hands, "Vulnerable without my Geass, and, in your . . . absence, I considered the weight you hold as a member of the Black Knights. I never . . . said thank you for your assistance, in both the incident proceeding the SAZ nor when you continued to back my campaigns. "

". . . It is human nature to rebel against powerlessness," the words were foreign on her tongue while her amber eyes blazed below the bulb light, "I don't blame you for hating me."

"Ha," his whispers, his remorse echoed against the walls, "How hollow."

"Well," her statement was dry, "I am not necessarily human."

"That's far too cold; you are human if you like, C.C.."

"Comfort is one thing," it was a dangerous warning that tittered on the edge of frustration, "Lying is another."

"Maybe so, but . . . we are partners, so be whatever you want, and I will accept that."

". . . It's fine," and it died in the womb, careful and authoritative, yet cool.

"I have been unnecessarily cruel to you."

". . . "

"You were willing to die for me then, and I never understood the profundity of that, continued irregardless of your pain," in a thoughtful lapse, he considered that she had lied, been willingly evasive, and deemed it a crime no worse than his own, "Know that, once Nunally's world is created, I _will_ bring about your wish."

"Lelouch, _I_ was the one who suggested suicide missions; they are of assistance to your Order. This was my choice," death was becoming such a common thing that he couldn't see it laughing in front of his door, and he wondered what in him was Lelouch vi Britannia, Lamperouge, Zero, and still his mother's son. Yet he found that there was something, buried deep inside his mind, more frightened by what was not.

"Well, then I . . . cannot accept that, or place you on a value that's lesser than that of my subordinates. I have been unjust," it came sharply, shadowed by a low mutter of, "I trust you, and am willing to sacrifice as you have done for me. We're one in the same, and that will remain true with or without Geass. I . . . ignored that in favor of my own egotism."

- - -

"Come at me as though you intend to kill, Kururugi!" Cornelia sneered, fingers curled around a golden hilt while the blade glistened below the sunlight, "Hesitation will win you death on the field!"

"Your Highness," Gilbert said uneasily, watching from the steel overhang as frames glided below his feet—blurs of color and sparks, a brilliant magenta Gloucester abandoned by its pilot with the gaping mouth of the cockpit left open, "I don't think this is appropriate. . . ."

"You have no right to question my authority," it was a snarl, fierce as she slid it back into its home inside the sheathe.

"Yes, but . . ."

"He has lost his position in everything but name alone. That is unacceptable."

Suzaku looked between the two of them and said nothing as the Lancelot, a metal monster made of sharp angles and white paint, towered from its hold, ". . ."

"The Empress," she growled, swiveling to meet him before signaling for her Knightmare to be removed, "gave me no sympathy as a girl. I will do the same!"

"But using a Knightmare frame in demonstration is . . ."

"The Lancelot is Schneizel's undertaking," her words were painfully cynical, the automatic door hissing open, "I have his permission, Guilford."

"Even so . . ."

"A Knight without a charge is a failure," the bleak implications screamed in silence as Suzaku was left to drown in Euphemia's memory, "The terrorists are breeding in the eastern and western sectors. It's not long before Zero will retake his stage. He will speak, think, and do as I see fit—now, am I clear. "

"But is Zero the most pertinent issue—"

"Zero is not dead," Cornelia turned on her heel, and the guards bowed their heads in respect as she threw back a vicious, "Those men survive even when they are corpses; don't be a fool."

"Your Highness . . ." her Knight swallowed his counter, taciturn as he stepped lightly to ground level until managing an uncertain , "It is unfortunate."

". . ." Suzaku had no urge to ask why while he forced himself to ignore his thoughts, all suddenly clamoring at news of the resurrection of Zero's legacy.

"Her Highness was shocked by news of Prince Clovis' death, and now Princess Euphemia and Sir Darlton," there was a injured paused, and he didn't move when Guilford offered up a grave, "I grieve for your loss. You have my condolences."

". . . You don't," the words were choked as he fought to soothe away screeches in a stadium drowned with blood, "Fault her for what she did?"

"I don't believe that the Princess could possibly be so brutal. She was not in her right mind," his answer was silence as he turned the key in his fingers, "More so, her death was the failure of the entire Britannian military. I, too, can understand Her Highness's desperation to capture him in the name of the Princess's memory, if nothing else."

"Would she kill Zero," it felt odd on his tongue, heavy as he thought of weight of the gun when he had the opportunity—was _moments_ from firing the shot—but did nothing. Suzaku was disgusted; with himself, with Lelouch and the idea that his hands went rigid in refusal when it should have been justified. There was such disregard for human life as he let the highways of the prefecture fall on the homes under it, in his slaughter at Narita. It was the murder of a brigade that never had to die that day, and he could recall the broken bodies as they tugged them free from upturned earth while the sun carved streams of light through the trees.

Shirley's father could be breathing now, a friend's family united and _whole _instead of fractured with cracks left by false memories, had Lelouch never assumed that one Devil represented the entire populace of a nation. And Euphemia—_Euphie's _faith in a peaceable world, her glowing smile, and character may never have been compromised, stained with lies had _he_ understood the nature of his own denial!

Suzaku lamented that he had failed to pull that trigger for far too long, both when there was a teasing sense that he might, _could _be Zero, and now. There was no time for sympathy and elegies to old friendships when he had already deemed them dead and gone; apathy was criminal in a life where Lelouch had an birthed his own insane vision to rival his father's.

_'I'll find out where Nunally is,' _it was dark as he clutched the pin, hooked angles nipping at his skin, _'And why she—she was Geassed. And then . . . but, that girl, what did she want with me . . .'_

"—She has mentioned it, however that doesn't appear to be her desired outcome."

His breath hitched in his throat when he was tossed back to the claws of reality, "What, sir?"

"Her Highness is more concerned with taking him hostage as a demonstration, and thus annihilating the resistance growing in the Areas. I imagine he would be executed shortly thereafter."

"Sir Guilford," Suzaku asked uneasily, considering Schneizel's reputation as a warlord who had ripped through Europe, "Does His Highness have any intention to return to the mainland?"

"It's his hope that he can better represent Britannia's interests in area Eleven, as well as calm the citizen's paranoia. But, from what Her Highness has told me, no."

". . ."

It fell to thundering silence before he finished with a stiff and awkward, "He believes that problems of one's own country demand the royalty's immediate attention."

"Oh, who cares what he's _doing_," the voice was flamboyant, high-pitched as it barreled from the bowels of the armory, "Our only interest is the Lancelot, and it's been getting a due share of media attention. Really, how can I accomplish anything with these idiots' orders?"

"It's a beautiful afternoon, Sir Guilford," Cécile's smile was blank, a veil of paper-thin navy straddling her back and pale cheeks, as she forced the words through gritted teeth. Waving an arm in dismissal, Lloyd dodged her burning glare and took his side at the Lancelot, lovingly running long fingers over the newly installed parts.

"Haha, it is," Guilford was good-humored when he bolted away from them, muttering of his accomplishments, "If I may, the Engineering Corps do seem to be living up to their name. The capability of a seventh generation Frame will be something to fear."

"Yes, well," she said unevenly, "It was supposed to be a military secret, but . . ."

"And it _was_," Lloyd announced boldly with a shrug of his shoulders, spinning to face them, "But humans take the good with the bad, hmm?"

"You're too cheerful," she heaved a sigh, dusting hair from her jawline with a flick of the wrist.

"Strange, I thought I was very well-behaved, and really, they were at fault—ah, Suzaku, I have good news for you!"

Suzaku jolted to attention, feeling sluggish at his slow reaction time, "Yes, sir?"

"I," it was singsong, drifting into the veins of metal piping climbing towards the ceiling, "adddded an ejection seat—"

"Shhh!" Cécile tugged at his labcoat before jerking him backwards, Lloyd stumbling in a lanky jumble of limbs, "Don't say _that_ in front of Gilbert, let alone Suzaku!"

"You were stationed without a standard unit?" Guilford muttered in surprise, but he kept silent when she leaped to answer for him.

"It's not really that," shooing Lloyd from her death grip, Cécile pieced together her nervous grin, "The Lancelot was never equipped for regular deployment and—"

"Naturally, we couldn't get anyone to pilot it. In any normal circumstances, the expl—"

Suzaku got to his feet in a shaky caricature of solemn, threading the metal through the front of his uniform and letting the emblem gleam gold and white below light escaping through the window glass, "If you would excuse me, Miss Cécile, Lloyd, and Sir Guilford."

* * *

_AN:_ Oh, Suzaku and your screaming metal deathtrap. (I'll get back on the ball, really! D: Er. . . Next week, after finals. On that note, I'm busting out many, many subplots and minor/major characters next chapter. Since it's been over four months since the massacre itself, I can _finally_ begin to work with Schneizel, Cornelia, and others. Also: KALLEN. :3

. . . Shamefully, I like writing Kallen much more than watching her. D: On a completely unrelated note, I guess I'll just start responding to reviews. It probably would have happened eventually anyway. )

**To Varanus: **Like I said, thank you for your review. I wanted to add this quick little tidbit that I forgot in the PM—please remember that the C.C. I'm writing also has to fit to the structure of _And in blood_ as a narrative. If I change her character now, I have to remove a major aspect of the plot, and then rework it to accommodate. D: (Plus, I do find her subplot to be one of the most interesting I've come up with thus far, so I hope that will help spark some interest.) That being said, give me a break, if you can! This isn't how I would write her, say, if this was strictly canon. However, as that is not the case, I feel I have creative license, but I _will_ try to make her a bit more sympathetic to Lelouch's plight.

**To Tenohikari:** Haha, well . . . a little bit of both. (Also, that's an impressive double-edged sword Lelouch is wielding . . . Honestly, I don't know how he would have gotten out of that one without seeming just a tad off. I mean, ordering a massacre by accident would sound contradictory to most people even if it _is_ the truth . . .)

**To Blackrose:** I'm glad to see I managed to make it less awkward, considering I intend to do it more than once . . . (I never meant to confuse anyone, after all! D: ) Anyway, thanks, as usual!


	10. Zwischenzug

**Title:** And in blood

* * *

_AN: _I graduated from high school, dear lord. And early, with credits to spare. (I know no one cares, but I hated high school. . .) And, as a warning, **this is a fairly short chapter**. Ah well.

And, for those of you who don't realize, **Kallen was still living in her household for around three weeks** in order to get her things together.

* * *

The room was a pocket of blinding white with a loveseat straddling the edge of an aged Turkish Knot carpet, and Nina Einstein shuffled—her knuckles were pale as she sat, nervous under the psychologist's steady gaze.

"If I may," he was a man with severe brown eyes and a head of black who was rumored to have been born in a business suit, "Parasocial interaction—the following of the late Princess Euphemia through television and media—usually gives a sense of 'knowing' the figure. These kinds of delusions are typical of those suffering from intense social anxiety."

"That isn't true!" Nina insisted fervently, dipping forward, "I've spoken to her personally, and she saved me from—"

"You developed a strong attachment because of your significant psychological trauma—or, the severe emotions brought on by being a hostage," he pressed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and managed a kinder, "She seemed to be able to influence the situation, but was powerless. Your own fear is manifest in your dependence on her."

"I have none of those—"

He was composed, and his hands were folded in his lap, "I understand you have a history of panic attacks and have changed schools often?"

"I . . ." she stuttered, voice dying in her throat, "Um, yes. That's true."

"These attacks have been reoccurring since childhood, correct?"

"Um, well . . ." her confidence broke, and she shied away from his critical eye while tugging at the threads of her blouse. She should have died that day; joined Euphemia in death after she tore through the Black Knights and their rebellion. Without her, what good was being alive? Life was meaningless—characterized by fear, isolation, uncontrolled variables, and desperation as terrorism took route in the ghettos. She could remember those feelings, but there was also that instantaneous_ euphoria_, such an encompassing emotion!

There was Euphemia li Britannia, who would have been a sacrifice for her sake. Nothing was more supreme than a savior, and Nina let her gaze find the molding on the ceiling; thought of cherry locks and soft skin and bravery_ and_—and the woman she believed in. No, Nina corrected herself, she was a _girl_. Their ages were nearly the same, yet Princess Euphemia was so much _different_. There was no word to give life to how or why, but that distinction separated her from whatever was so common about humanity. For eight months, she had followed her through media in hopes of satisfying an urge, but then she was given the privilege to speak with her. Euphemia, who was once unattainable, called her an equal, and even a friend! She had never felt such bliss.

Unlike the others, she knew the Princess as more than a name. If she—if _they_ had been given a chance! There was more she would have said and done, but it was ripped from them in their prime. She would have to live at that school, and barricade herself in a filthy basement until she moved to the protection of a laboratory. Science would be the only thrill in her life, yet even that was stolen by her family and this clinic! Her parents had committed her to a mental facility in hopes of 'helping her', but Nina would never call herself insane.

_"A bomb?! My daughter,"_ her mother had lamented in tears, _"Thinks thoughts like this—oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I should have done something differently, __**anything**__—"_ And she had torn through her room and ruined everything that reminded her of Euphemia. There were cruel insults thrown on the message boards, in blogs, and journals: "Freak!" "Homicidal maniac!" "She tried to kill us!" The voices seemed to follow her, and she withdrew into silence and disbelief. Back then, she had been furious, and that birthed a desire to enact her revenge on the world itself—the Black Knights, the students, and _Zero_. She would have set the flame for that; she would have died for that! What was the world worth if Euphemia was dead and he, the—the thing of the Elevens that murdered her was still alive. Daring to survive was his greatest evil!

Even now, she hated him so.

- - -

"Gottwald," it was whispered as she walked the halls of the military base, "Has returned from the dead."

_'Jeremiah . . .'_ Villetta thought darkly, remembering that he had bolted into the city outskirts after ranting of his humiliation at Zero's hands. He had been stripped of his title, psychological damaged from the war front, and damn near insane—_obsessed _over bringing Zero to justice. His survival was another secret Britannia withheld from her, and she shuddered at the idea of them deeming _her_ unfit for service. She had narrowly avoided suspicion in that she had leaked information to the Empire about the Black Knight's command center, but _Kaname_.

_'I can't—'_ it was strained as she stood up, back straight, _'Damn it!' _Her entire world would unravel if it was true; she would lose her position, her reputation, her dignity at the hands of damned trash! All her struggling to topple that middle class, pathetic joke of a life her parents had _praised_ would be undone by a moment where she couldn't control herself. Villetta was devoted to achieving prestige and valued Britannia's social order, having long since accepted that they had a god-given _right_ to quarantine and civilize Orientals, Negroes, Muslims. Any _number_ was her enemy, and she had taken that mantra as a Knight—no, as a daughter of her country.

Yet she had fraternized with an Eleven, enjoyed the blankets as they tickled her skin and the breath when it crept past her bare neck—and she shuddered, swallowing hard as the memories flooded her skull. She noted, with disgust, that there was something alien about her heels and uniform—both were tight, and they squeezed the very breath out of her. She had been reassigned, presumed MIA, and then called a deserter for reappearing only as Zero's rebellion was grinded into the dirt. It was sick, that she—who had taken a bullet in the name of her _country_!—was branded a traitor by her own.

Apprehension teased her as the soldiers seemed to _swarm_, and she swiveled on her heel. The hall was deserted, a long stretch of navy blue and creamy whites, while she struggled to regain her composure. _'I am Britannian, damn it!'_ No fool could change that, even if they dared to call her a number lover.

"—?" She reached for a notebook, the pages laden with careful, precise handwriting, "Tch." Turning it in her hands, she searched the back cover for a name:

_'Kururugi, Suzaku.' _

Villetta felt a rush of hatred, and fought the urge to drop it again, _'Filthy Eleven.' _Britannia had forgotten its lineage—that, she mused cynically, was the fault in leaving Schneizel or the late Euphemia to lead. She had been fond of Lady Cornelia and her strict policies regarding Numbers, yet even _she_ had fallen into the same trap of pity and tolerance. _'Goddammit, that __**he's **__the same rank as me. . . '_

Biting back her bitterness, she thumbed idly through the pages until footsteps rang against the tile.

- - -

The slap tore holes through the veil of their silence and Lelouch, red threading across his cheek, murmured a simple, "Kallen."

"Why is Milly registered with the new recruits?!" She spat dangerously, her auburn tumbling in messy waves—her stare was icy as her fists quaked at her hips, and he let the mask dangle from his fingers.

"That was her request," he added dryly, and Kallen's poised frown shattered into a scowl, "Or do you have the audacity to deny another their choice."

"This is dangerous!" It was biting before he turned sharply on his heel, "She's a civilian, damn it, and part of the council!"

The mask clattered on the wood, shadows skirting the plastic, and he shrugged the cape from his shoulders, "And what are you, Q-1."

"Choice?!" She bristled furiously and he tugged at his gloves—the leather was stretched taut, worn from steel guns and pockets of gravel when they had crouched in waiting, "This isn't something people like Milly can handle! How damn irresponsible can you be! Don't drag her into this—"

"Eventually," the statement was simple—detached while her stare burned into his back, "Britannia will rebel against her citizens, or, if possible, Japan will revolt when it becomes a promotional state."

Kallen snarled a dark, "_That's_—"

"Returning to the mainland is a viable alternative to terrorism," it bounded from walls, hollow while her nails dug into her skin, "However, the council has the protection of the Black Knights. I have discussed this at length with Milly herself."

"You always feed excuses like that!" Kallen growled, fierce as she threw an arm out in demonstration, "How—"

"Then you feel one is vindicated if living in fear? I see no issues with her involvement."

"Don't you use my own words against me, damn it—" A knock, loud as he bolted for the mask and let its gears turn. It weighed on his shoulders, teasingly warm as its teeth snapped together, plates whispering into place over the back of his neck. Kallen forced herself to a menacing calm, upright and alert as knuckles rapped against the frame—impatiently this time, and he slipped into a swivel chair with a wave of the hand.

Biting back a sneer, she groped for the doorknob before wrenching it ajar, "What? Zero's busy!" His lips quirked into a smirk as the man, a representative of Kirihara with his hair slicked against his skull and sporting the J.L.F's earthy browns, jolted to attention before shying from her anger.

"Sir!" Lelouch's eyeless gaze moved through him, and he pieced his composure, "A letter addressed in the name of Sumeragi Kaguya, fifth generation headmistress of Kyoto Industries."

"A _letter_, what if it's been intercepted or—" She glared daggers, barely retaining her self-control when she snatched it from his hands.

"Yes. Her lady thought this was," Lelouch took in the implications of his pregnant, near-anxious pause, "more, er, _personal_."

Tapping a thin finger to the armrest, he glided to his feet—graceful, he mused cynically as he balanced on the thick spikes of his heels, and Kallen shoved it into his palm before adopting her usual professionalism. He flipped it open nonchalantly with the back of his thumb, the paper fresh and stark white as he tugged it free; policy dictated that they handle personal documents with care, Kaguya's being a relatively recent addition to the Knights as a whole. Given that he had no option to Geass her faction into loyalty, Lelouch had instructed that memorandum be passed through Rakshata in the case of airborne poisons—tensions between himself and the J.F.L. were a trembling string stretched to the breaking point, and _he_ practiced caution above all else. Sifting through a spiel of rose-colored phrases and innuendo, Lelouch felt a twitch of appreciation and handed it easily to Kallen.

"What," it was curious before she took it from him and spluttered a taken-aback, "This is—she's perverse! Ugh!"

"But effective," Lelouch muttered before stalking back into the bowels of his den, "Please give the Lady Kaguya my regards, and expect my response in a day."

"Zero!" The representative jerked to respond, but ended with his mouth hanging open as she left him to stare at a closed door.

"Kaguya," it was spoken to the silence and Kallen leaned against the frame, ". . . "

"—? " She raised an eyebrow, and he cursed the familiarity of their houses.

"Where would the industry be if they gave it away for free," he was dry, and left to wonder why he was subject to so many old faces in the past year.

She strung together a callous, "So, she's—"

"Coalesced a Britannian steel supplier into Kyoto that was passing Frames through the underground," he was frank as the lock clicked into its hold before ridding himself of the mask, "This was—"

"Other terrorist groups are frustrated with the media weight of the Black Knights," Kallen replied briskly, "And want to feed of the scare factor. That aside, just because Britannia doesn't agree with the terrorist groups doesn't mean they don't consider them customers."

It tempted a smirk, "At the base of things. The separate factions compete for the assistance of, for example, the J.L.F., and our rebellion has compromised their interests."

"And," she watched when he tugged the cloth from his mouth—it was a sharp contrast, and he forced down a breath of stale air, "some of them aren't exactly friendly to a Britannian resistance leader. They think your use of rhetoric is a slag against the Japanese."

"Precisely. Many backers have pulled their support because they benefit from the distribution of arms, and others have no desire to be associated with our campaign—"

"Like," she was sarcastic, eyes looking past him as a mountain of blankets stirred in the dark, "The Chinese Federation."

"The Black Rebellion originally had equipment carried over by Chinese who continued to agree with the ideology behind the Oriental Incident," his voice died, Lelouch at the mercy of her stare as she choked down the urge to remind him of Milly, "However, they see no advantage to raging war against Britannia or its policies."

The room was alive with heat and sparks in the quiet before she hissed a bitter, "Don't call it Oriental—"

The words were empty as he continued, leaning into the cushion and leather, "Nor do I have an interest in encouraging dependence on the Federation. I simply want them imagine they have some . . . significance to secure their alliance. Based on the census, the Chinese have the greatest population save for Britannia."

"No one wants them, though. They're the first to jump the boat whenever we're winning or losing ground."

"Thus," he strained to hear the rustling of cloth and ragged, tired breathing, "They are not of the greatest priority at the moment. C.C."

Green locks clung to her cheeks in loose, twisted strands as she pried her legs from Cheese-kun, and she stifled a yawn while shadows played behind her eyes, ". . . You both are loud . . . how impolite."

"You're sleeping while _we _do all the work!" Kallen accused crossly, sardonic as she ran a hand through her hair.

Her reply was stiff, "Is that so."

"I," it was exhausted, shoulders sagging before she slipped into the hallway, "want to check on the status of the Guren."

He let his eyes find her as she groped for the carcasses of old pizza boxes, before she graced him with a cynical, "They're gon—your habits are obsessive-compulsive."

"C.C.," he said flatly, C.C. sinking into the plush of her pillow with a slow arch of her back, "I have a question regarding Suzaku."

"Oh," she wrestled Cheese-kun into submission, ducking him below her thin dip of a chin.

"Why did you intervene?"

With a bored turn of the head, she managed a simple, "Hmm."

Their conversation in the mansion whispered to the forefront of his mind, and Lelouch forced an indifferent, "If you trust me . . ."

"Trust," she was his echo, low and murmured, ". . . I wanted to see what V.V. told him."

"V.V.," Lelouch parroted simply, tapping a finger against the armrest; despite a wounded ego, Lelouch had been careful to conduct his own research regarding the Geass rather than chase a lost cause. _'. . . In time, he'll pay for daring to touch Nunally.'_ Given that C.C. was related to him both biologically and personally, he had no doubts that he would have another opportunity to capture him—there was no need to squander resources when he had no leads outside of definite ties to the royal family, "And your reasons for doing so?"

"I doubt you would have let me handle that pilot how I wanted to," he raised an eyebrow and wondered exactly what kind of 'treatment' C.C. deemed appropriate, "I felt it would be . . . less distracting for you."

". . ." He stirred uncomfortably while she dug her fingers into the stuffing—they were both technical immortals, but C.C. was a subject of the Empire's experiments. Presumably, V.V. was not under Clovis' jurisdiction nor were his primary contracts outside of the imperial house; so much movement would be pointless.

She mused an off-hand, "V.V. gave him false information. Something about will . . ."

"Then he's been manipulated," it spilled from him breezily, "If that—"

"No," she was final, cutting him short with the precision of a blade, "His hatred is real, Lelouch."

His nails bit into the fabric, and he turned away with a cold, "It's inconsequential. I have no interest in his two-faced loyalty."

C.C. pulled herself upright, her critical stare tearing into him, "Is that what you believe."

"I don't have the patience to fix his flawed logic," Lelouch's reply was cynical, "His naivety is worthless—Knighthood is pretentious, Britannian jargon. I can protect her myself."

". . ."

"That _I_ should defend my own innocence," Lelouch sneered, keeping careful control over his voice, "When he hides behind fantasy. Tch—to rely on Britannia, where he was . . ."

"It must be offensive . . ."

Lelouch spat an acerbic, "What?"

"All this talk of need . . ." C.C. stated, words muffled in Cheese-kun's waves of stuff and mustard-colored cotton.

"Ha, 'need'. He was just a gift for Nunally," it was condescending as he propped his laptop on the tabletop, "I don't want his faith, or his acceptance."

"But," the words were distant, "Now, you've told him to become a murderer . . ."

Feeling a twitch of rage, he snarled a dangerous, "That was not the facet of Zero he should see!"

"I asked you if you could kill someone you loved," the implication left a heavy weight on his heart, "He, too, may choose that over 'negotiation'."

"Suzaku," he spun to meet her, struggling to subdue a surge of fresh rage, "The bastard, he believes I would _kill_ Euphemia!"

"But," she noted tiredly, her gaze unflinching, "You did pull the trigger . . ."

It stung, and he pieced a tentative, ". . . It was necessary."

"I don't care about morality," C.C.'s disinterest sent the angry flame in him rising again, "And your choices don't matter to me—"

Lelouch snapped a dark and embittered, "Tch—"

"But, if I hold the 'weight' that you claim," she meandered to silence, before adding a straightforward, "I would say that you did the right thing, and that Euphemia would agree."

The name tugged at his heartstrings, ". . ."

She waited for an answer that never came and muttered a gentle, "Is it so important, when you know judgment is different for everyone."

"If it's for Nunally," she let her eyes drift to him, "Then I am not afraid to walk this world alone."

". . . And that order."

"We have the Gefjun Disturber," he said quietly, and C.C. swung her legs free—faced him with neither a mischievous grin nor a shell of a frown, "If he comes, I'll oblige him."

She offered a simple, even cutting, "You said you wouldn't be dragged down by attachment, sentiment . . ."

"And I'll uphold that," Lelouch choked down his insults, and reminded himself that it was unfair to attack her of all people—not when he owed her his own debts, "I have—"

"Those are only excuses," there was no malice playing beneath her words.

"But _Euphemia_—"

"Remember," C.C. began, solemn when she reached for a sweater jacket and threw it over her shoulders, "That you chose this path, and where it led. Perhaps . . . you should cut them off."

He breathed a harsh, "What?!"

"If you remove them, they can no longer be endangered by your actions. That should solve your problem."

If he did that, Nunally would be completely alone! He, he would be—! "That's extremism. There's no reason to assume that—"

". . . But what that Kallen said . . . some part of you agrees. _'It's irresponsible to involve my loved ones in my war. Such a selfish thing for me to do,'_" C.C. trailed to a heavy silence, shifting weight, "Or are you ready to start making sacrifices? I thought you were the one who said they need to survive, or are they worthless now."

"I . . ." It was pained as it died to nothing and he thought of Euphemia, who was such a sick testament to sacrifice.

"This is the simplest answer. Do whatever you like, but that will still be true."

- - -

"Uh, Mr. Stadtfelt," it was a harsh buzz in the speaker as the ring tone ended and the sound of rustling murmured through the line.

"Who is this?" The voice was accusatory—unfamiliar, he thought uneasily, in that it had been nearly a decade since Johannes Stadtfelt had left with all his good intentions.

"Ohgi, Kaname," the answer was a hazy mutter of white noise.

"You," it came slowly, without the stiff professionalism he knew that man prided himself on, "You're a friend of . . ."

"Yeah," Ohgi abandoned it before he had the chance to say the name, "Uh, I'd like to speak to you in regards to your daughter."

". . ."

He strung an uncertain, "She's—well, she would like to stay with me, sir."

"You two aren't—"

He cut it off before it veered into that back road, "No, nothing like that."

"No, I believe you," Mr. Stadtfelt was solemn as he heaved a simple, "The relationship was never so cynical."

"Thank you, sir," it was an odd formality; he had never been 'permitted' to treat him as a peer, and he had long ago stopped caring about the man.

"Kallen," it was emotionless, "I imagine she hates me. Are you here to tell me that about my own daughter?"

"No."

There was nothing for a time, and then he mused a tired, "My son is dead."

Ohgi's words were cynical, "She knows that, sir."

"She may hate me, but if she," he dwindled to nothing, but managed to force, "I can't let her live in the ghettos . . . and she's run away, yes, that's it. I don't . . ."

". . ."

It was a sigh, barely above a whisper, "I haven't been a good father to her, or to Naoto. I know she doesn't listen to me, she's not my girl anymore . . ."

Ohgi leaned into the wall, listening halfheartedly to his self-pity, and found no sympathy for him. Kallen was fond of her straight face and hid away the darker parts of their history, but he knew that Mr. Stadtfelt was a coward who chose to sleep with other women in front of his daughter. He had disowned Naoto, fantasized that there was some meaning in giving him a grave, and returned to being a Britannian parasite; and, in all that, he had done nothing for _her_.

He continued with a bleak, "Does she want to?"

". . . Yeah, but it isn't a good idea."

"I," Ohgi ignored the hesitation in his voice, "Does she work in that same organization."

"No," it was a lie, and he felt a twitch of guilt.

"Good," Mr. Stadtfelt was complacent, but something in him wondered if he believed it or just wanted to, "I can't make her stay. She's an adult—"

"What?! Isn't that selfish," he sneered furiously, "You can't just let her—"

"She might need to see what . . . Britannia and the ghettos are really like. I think Kallen needs to see that."

". . ."

"I'll continue to pay for her schooling," his voice was suddenly strong and the epitome of a good businessman's, "But I want you to convince her to come see me. I agree that she can't live there without any assistance, and expect to hold her to that." Ohgi heard a faint click and then was rattled by a jarring hiss of 'beep.' Wearing a scowl, he left it on the hook—Mr. Stadtfelt lived on an entirely practical level, and manners weren't his forte.

He sighed, deep and melancholy while he pulled the drawer open with a fraying phone book in hand, and felt them smiling inside their photographs—himself, Naoto, and Kallen from a trip to the Kinosaki Onsen nearly three years ago. Shuffling through the stack, he felt a tug of pity when his fingertips brushed over the glossy face of their mother; her skin was smooth where wrinkles lined them now, and there was a brightness in her eyes that Refrain robbed her of.

_'It might be a good idea,'_ he thought, lips curving into a frown, _'to go with Kallen to the . . .'_ He shuffled it to the bottom, and something in him throbbed. Numbness shattered his reverie as he remembered silver rippling down the small of her back, and skin colored an even brown. It had been unreal to watch the gun in her small hands, the bullet barreling into his side as the shot thundered in the silence; Chigusa, who had been abandoned in jagged crags, had calmly asked him to die for the sake of her name. Kallen snarled, _demanded_ that he get rid of it—and a part of him felt compelled to let her go.

_'. . .' _even so, it would be nice to see the smile she wore at the festival.

* * *

_AN: _And just when you thought that it was safe, I give you filler. D: Oh, and Schneizel and Cornelia get to shine in the next, say, two chapters? (That seems reasonable enough.) And Shirley, too. :3

**Vanarus:** Ah, all right then! That can take some pressure off me, since the negative light I put them both in was a little disheartening . . . And, honestly, I don't think there's anything wrong with critiquing aspects of the piece regardless of authorial intent, or that you were too hasty in your review. (Knowing the plot is my job, after all!) I like hearing other people's opinions, whether they're positive or not—so, if anything bothers you (or anyone else), feel free to bring it to my attention. To be totally blunt, I think it's easier to get more ideas that way. :D;

Also, I'm glad Suzaku seemed in-character. It was difficult to manage a plausible scenario where he would let her off the hook. D:

**Teno-hikari: **I'm glad _you_ liked it. XD (Actually, I thought it was by far my worst chapter. The writing was very off . . . but hey, this makes me feel less anxious about the content at least.) As for Nunally, I think you're right in that her losing Lelouch (and others) is a tragic aspect of her character. On that note, what you said gave me an idea, so thanks for that, too! :D

That aside! Cornelia, brainwashed . . . hmm. Well, I'm going to refrain from giving anything away.

And, to everyone else, thanks for reading thus far!


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